[Rushing up and sinking at his feet.]

Recollect thy oath!--
Or in thy heart lodged never germ of honour,
But 'tis a desert all!

[She kisses his hand--presses it to her heart, and kisses it again.]

Farewell then to thee!

[Rises.]

Mayst thou be happy. [Going.]

_Wal_. Wouldst ensure the thing
Thou wishest?

[She moves towards the door with a gesture that prohibits further
converse.]

Stop! [She continues to move on.]
Oh, sternly resolute! [She still moves.]
I mean thee honour!

[She stops and turns towards him.]

Thou dost meditate--
I know it--flight. Give me some pause for thought,
But to confirm a mind almost made up.
If in an hour thou hearest not from me, then
Think me a friend far better lost than won!
Wilt thou do this?

_Lydia_. I will.

_Wal_. An hour decides.

[They go out severalty.]

SCENE II.--A Room in Sir William Fondlove's House.

[Enter WILDRAKE and TRUEWORTH.]

_Wild_. You are not angry?

_True_. No; I knew the service
I sent you on was one of danger.

_Wild_. Thank you.
Most kind you are--And you believe she loves me:
And your own hopes give up to favour mine.
Was ever known such kindness! Much I fear
'Twill cost you.

_True_. Never mind! I'll try and bear it.

_Wild_. That's right. No use in yielding to a thing.
Resolve does wonders! Shun the sight of her--
See other women!--Fifty to be found
As fair as she.

_True_. I doubt it.

_Wild_. Doubt it not.
Doubt nothing that gives promise of a care.
Right handsome dames there are in Lancashire,
Whence called their women, witches!--witching things!
I know a dozen families in which
You'd meet a courtesy worthy of a bow.
I'll give you letters to them.

_True_. Will you?

_Wild_. Yes.

_True_. The worth of a disinterested friend!

_Wild_. O Master Trueworth, deeply I'm your debtor
I own I die for love of neighbour Constance!
And thou to give her up for me! Kind friend!
What won't I do for thee?--Don't pine to death;
I'll find thee fifty ways to cure thy passion,
And make thee heart-whole, if thou'rt so resolved.
Thou shalt be master of my sporting stud,
And go a hunting. If that likes thee not,
Take up thy quarters at my shooting-lodge;
There is a cellar to 't--make free with it.
I'll thank thee if thou emptiest it. The song
Gives out that wine feeds love--It drowns it, man!
If thou wilt neither hunt nor shoot, try games;
Play at loggats, bowls, fives, dominoes, draughts, cr