_Handy, jun._ Yes, I will reflect, that I am the most fortunate fellow in England. She loves me still--what is the consequence?--that love will triumph--that she will be mine--mine without the degradation of marriage--love, pride, all gratified--how I shall be envied when I triumphantly pass the circles of fashion! One will cry, "Who is that angel?"--another, "Happy fellow!" then Susan will smile around--will she smile? oh yes--she will be all gaiety--mingle with the votaries of pleasure, and--what! Susan Ashfield the companion of licentious women!--Damnation!--no! I wrong her--she would not--she would rather shun society--she would be melancholy--melancholy! [_Sighs, and looks at his watch._]--would the time were over!--Pshaw! I think of it too seriously--'Tis false--I do not.--Should her virtue yield to love, would not remorse affect her health? should I not behold that lovely form sicken and decay--perhaps die?--die! then what am I?--a villain, loaded with her parents' curses and my own.--Let me fly from the dreadful thought.--But how fly from it?--[_Calmly._]--By placing before my imagination a picture of more honourable lineaments.--I make her my wife.--Ah! then she would smile on me--there's rapture in the thought;--instead of vice producing decay, I behold virtue emblazoning beauty; instead of Susan on the bed of death, I behold her giving to my hopes a dear pledge of our mutual love. She places it in my arms--down her father's honest face runs a tear--but 'tis the tear of joy. Oh, this will be luxury! paradise!--Come, Susan!--come, my love, my soul--my _wife_. _Enter_ SUSAN--_she at first hesitates--on hearing the word_ wife, _she springs into his arms._ _Susan._ Is it possible? _Handy, jun._ Yes, those charms have conquered. _Susan._ Oh! no; do not so disgrace the victory you have gained--'tis your own virtue that has triumphed. _Handy, jun._ My Susan! how true it is that fools alone are vicious. But let us fly to my father, and obtain his consent. On recollection, that may not be quite so easy. His arrangements with Sir Philip Blandford are--are--not mine, so there's an end of that. And Sir Philip, by misfortune, knows how to appreciate happiness. Then poor Miss Blandford--upon my soul I feel for her. _Susan._ [_Ironically._] Come, don't make yourself miserable. If my suspicions be true, she'll not break her heart for your loss. _Handy, jun._ Nay, don't say so; she will be unhappy. _Ash._ [_Without._] There he is. Dame, shall I shoot at un? _Dame._ No. _Susan._ My father's voice. _Ash._ Then I'll leather un wi' my stick. _Enter_ ASHFIELD _and_ DAME. _Ash._ What do thee do here with my Sue, eh? _Handy, jun._ With your Sue!--she's mine--mine by a husband's right. _Ash._ Husband! what, thee Sue's husband? _Handy, jun._ I soon shall be. _Ash._ But how tho'?--What! faith and troth?--What! like as I married Dame? _Handy, jun._ Yes. _Ash._ What! axed three times!