ART. Those storms of fortune will be soon o'er-blown, When once thy cause shall be but truly known, That chance, not malice, wrought it; and thy pardon Will be with ease obtain'd. EUG. It may be, love, If old Sir Argent do deal truly in it. ART. But keep thyself conceal'd: do not rashly Venture two lives in one: or, when thou com'st, Let it be still in silence of the night. No visitation then, or other strange Unlook'd-for accident, can bar our joys. The moon is now in her full orb, and lends Securer light to lovers than the sun: Then only come. But prythee, tell me, love, How dost thou spend thy melancholy time? EUG. Within the covert of yon shady wood, Which clothes the mountain's rough and craggy top, A little hovel built of boughs and reeds Is my abode: from whence the spreading trees Keep out the sun, and do bestow in lieu A greater benefit, a safe concealment. In that secure and solitary place I give my pleas'd imagination leave To feast itself with thy supposed presence, Whose only shadow brings more joy to me, Than all the substance of the world beside. ART. Just so alone am I; nay, want the presence Of mine own heart, which strays to find out thee. But who comes to thee to supply thy wants? EUG. There Artemia names my happiness-- A happiness which, next thy love, I hold To be the greatest that the world can give, And I am proud to name it. I do there Enjoy a friend, whose sweet society Makes that dark wood a palace of delight: One stor'd with all that can commend a man; In whom refined knowledge and pure art, Mixing with true and sound morality, Is crown'd with piety. ART. What wonder's this, Whom thou describ'st? EUG. But I in vain, alas! Do strive to make with my imperfect skill A true dissection of his noble parts: He loses, love, by all that I can say; For praise can come no nearer to his worth Than can a painter with his mimic sun Express the beauty of Hyperion. ART. What is his name? EUG. His name is Theodore, Rich Earthworm's son, lately come home from travel. ART. O heavens! his son? Can such a caitiff wretch, Hated and curs'd by all, have such a son? The miser lives alone, abhorr'd by all, Like a disease, yet cannot so be 'scap'd; But, canker-like, eats through the poor men's hearts, That live about him: never has commerce With any, but to ruin them; his house Inhospitable as the wilderness, And never look'd upon but with a curse. He hoards, in secret places of the earth, Not only bags of treasure, but his corn, Whose every grain he prizes 'bove a life, And never prays at all but for dear years. EUG. For his son's sake, tread gently on his fame.