_Lydia_. Say thou hatest me, And I'll believe thee! Wherein differs love From hate, to do the work of hate--destroy? Thy ancestor won title to his deeds! Was one of them, to teach an honest maid The deed of sin--first steal her love, and then Her virtue? If thy family is proud, Mine, sir, is worthy! if we are poor, the lack Of riches, sir, is not the lack of shame, That I should act a part, would raise a blush, Nor fear to burn an honest brother's cheek! Thou wouldst share a throne with me! Thou wouldst rob me of A throne!--reduce me from dominion to Base vassalage!--pull off my crown for me, And give my forehead in its place a brand! You have insulted me. To shew you, sir, The heart you make so light of, you are beloved-- But she that tells you so, tells you beside She ne'er beholds you more! [Goes out.] _Wal_. Stay, Lydia!--No! 'Tis vain! She is in virtue resolute, As she is bland and tender in affection. She is a miracle, beholding which Wonder doth grow on wonder! What a maid! No mood but doth become her--yea, adorn her. She turns unsightly anger into beauty! Sour scorn grows sweetness, touching her sweet lips! And indignation, lighting on her brow, Transforms to brightness as the cloud to gold That overhangs the sun! I love her! Ay! And all the throes of serious passion feel At thought of losing her!--so my light love, Which but her person did at first affect, Her soul has metamorphosed--made a thing Of solid thoughts and wishes--I must have her! [Enter WIDOW GREEN, unnoticed by SIR WALLER, who continues abstracted.] _W. Green_. What! Master Waller, and contemplative! Presumptive proof of love! Of me he thinks! Revolves the point "to be or not to be!" "To be!" by all the triumphs of my sex! There was a sigh! My life upon't, that sigh, If construed, would translate "Dear Widow Green!" _Wal_. Enchanting woman! _W. Green_. That is I!--most deep Abstraction, sure concomitant of love. Now, could I see his busy fancy's painting, How should I blush to gaze upon myself. _Wal_. The matchless form of woman! The choice calling Of the aspiring artist, whose ambition Robs Nature to outdo her--the perfections Of her rare various workmanship combines To aggrandise his art at Nature's cost, And make a paragon! _W. Green_. Gods! how he draws me! Soon as he sees me, at my feet he falls!-- Good Master Waller! _Wal_. Ha! The Widow Green! _W. Green_. He is confounded! So am I. O dear! How catching is emotion. He can't speak! O beautiful confusion! Amiable Excess of modesty with passion struggling! Now comes he to declare himself, but wants The courage. I must help him.--Master Waller! [Enter SIR WILLIAM FONDLOVE.] _Sir Wil_. Dear Widow Green! _W. Green_. Sir William Fondlove! _Wal_. Thank My lucky stars! [Aside.]