_Arth._ 'Tis my character To doubt your sex, and yet from you I'd take it, But that I need it not in truth. _Flor._ Why doubt us? Ah! cousin, I have heard you have been wild, And so think women false, as you deceive them. _Arth._ That you have heard is false! _Flor._ I thought so. Now I could indeed imagine it were true. Because, perchance, you've lightly won some hearts, Thus you must be severe and scoff at all, As if you had good reason!--It is proof Of an ungenerous mind or scatter'd heart. _Arth._ Fair cousin, at your feet I would recant Mine error. _Flor._ 'Tis polite, sir, thus to yield All your experience. _Arth._ Nay, then! Do you not Believe a man may once love faithfully? _Flor._ 'Twere base to doubt it--yet I think not you: You know you could not tell if it were true, Your love might be a jest. [_She goes up the stage._] _Arth._ [_following FLORENCE._] By heaven! No. [_WILLIAM and BARBARA come forward._] _Will._ Young woman! I doubt not your attachment, nor wonder at your love; but it cannot be returned. Principle forbids; and this heart is blighted. _Barb._ Plighted, or not, I want none of it. What nonsense the man talks! _Will._ This beard--what think you of it? _Barb._ That it is red. _Will._ Yet 'tis not for you. _Barb._ I would humbly desire so. _Will._ Do you know, lively rustic, that the beard of Mars, the god of war, is auburnly inclined? It is much affected by the ladies of the south. _Barb._ I would they had it then, for it is an abhorr'd thing here. _Will._ What a rank prude is woman, thus to disguise her inclination. They call thee Barbara--Bab! restrain not thy fancy. Come, hang round my neck and love me. What! wouldst thou be an exception to thy sex? _Barb._ [_Strikes him._] Take that, thou coxcomb! [_Runs up the stage, WILLIAM follows, ARTHUR and FLORENCE advancing._] _Arth._ Break not my dream. It is not late. The night Will lose her beauty as thy footsteps fade In distance from me. Florence, go not yet. I had a thousand loyal thoughts, I swear, To utter, and as many questions, Florence, To ask thee of thyself. Thou lovest not, Thou canst not love my brother; for thou saidst As much, nay more, this moment. _Flor._ Did I so? Perchance I might have done; but then I love My father-- _Arth._ Tell me so again! _Flor._ Indeed, I love My father! _Arth._ Cruel! no, I'd have thee say If thou dost love my brother. _Flor._ He's my cousin. _Arth._ Or any one! _Barb._ Dear lady, it is time. _Flor._ Farewell, sir! yet I bid you take this purse 'Tis justice--nay, my will! _Arth._ Oh, farewell, Florence May angels light thy feet, and all the stars From heaven race with envious beams to shed Celestial brightness on the path thou blessest. [_Exit FLORENCE, R. ARTHUR gazes after FLORENCE. WILLIAM and BARBARA, coming down, L._] _Will._ Sweet Bab, I love thee. _Barb._ That is a man's saying.