d they love and part?

_Lydia_. How could they love not part, not free to wed?

_Wal_. Alone in marriage doth not union lie!

_Lydia_. Alone where hands are free! O yes--alone!
Love that is love, bestoweth all it can!
It is protection, if 'tis anything,
Which nothing in its object leaves exposed
Its care can shelter. Love that's free to wed,
Not wedding, but profanes the name of love;
Which is, on high authority to Earth's,
For Heaven did sit approving at its feast,
A holy thing! Why make you love to me?
Women whose hearts are free, by nature tender,
Their fancies hit by those they are besought by,
Do first impressions quickly--deeply take;
And, balked in their election, have been known
To droop a whole life through! Gain for a maid,
A broken heart!--to barter her young love,
And find she changed it for a counterfeit!

_Wal_. If there is truth in man, I love thee! Hear me!
In wedlock, families claim property.
Old notions, which we needs must humour often,
Bar us to wed where we are forced to love!
Thou hear'st?

_Lydia_. I do.

_Wal_. My family is proud;
Our ancestor, whose arms we bear, did win
An earldom by his deeds. 'Tis not enough
I please myself! I must please others, who
Desert in wealth and station only see.
Thou hear'st?

_Lydia_. I do.

_Wal_. I cannot marry thee,
And must I lose thee? Do not turn away!
Without the altar I can honour thee!
Can cherish thee, nor swear it to the priest;
For more than life I love thee!

_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 wouldest 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 whi