hy hope of happy days to come--
John yet has many happy days to live;
To live and make atonement.

_John_. Excellent lady,
Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes,
Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends,
Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?

_Marg_. (_rising_). Go whither, John?

_John_. Go in with me
And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?

_Marg_. That I will, John.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE.--_An inner Apartment_.

JOHN _is discovered kneeling_.--MARGARET _standing over him_.

_John_ (_rises_). I cannot bear
To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,
('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)
In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

_Marg_. John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.
O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,
And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold
Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient,
(You know you gave me leave to call you so,)
And I must chide these pestilent humors from you.

_John_. They are gone.--
Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!
I can smile too, and I almost begin
To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

_Marg_. Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.

_John_. Yet tell me, if I overact my mirth,
(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error.)
That were a sad indecency, you know.

_Marg_. Nay, never fear.
I will be mistress of your humors,
And you shall frown or smile by the book.
And herein I shall be most peremptory,
Cry, "This shows well, but that inclines to levity;
This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it,
But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."

_John_. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!

_Marg_. To give you in your stead a better self!
Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld
You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery,
Sir Rowland my father's gift,
And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.
I was a young thing then, being newly come
Home from my convent education, where
Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:
Returning home true protestant, you call'd me
Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful
Did John salute his love, being newly seen!
Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,
And praised it in a youth.

_John_. Now Margaret weeps herself.

(_A noise of bells heard_.)

_Marg_. Hark the bells, John.

_John_. Those are the