m?
This
Comes from your mawkish sentiment. You are
No child of mine--

_Flor._ Dear father! Hear me!

_Sir Sim._ Mark!
You're not of legal age--I'll drive you forth.
I'd rather see you dead, here, at my feet,
Than baulk my counsels thus. Nay, try and see
If sentiment will feed you, trick you out.
O, who would be a father?

_Flor._ Have I not
E'er shown you love and duty?

_Sir Sim._ Then obey!
If I'd said nought--Oh! then you'd been in love
With him, against my will--

_Flor._ No, sir, indeed!
Spare me--I'll think--I'll try. Be kind to me!

_Sir Sim._ Well, well, child, 'tis not right to treat me thus:
If I were full of passion--harsh, unkind,
Your conduct were less cruel. But, you'll kill
The old man some day with your cruelty.
You don't care for him--not you; yet he acts
All for your good. Some day you'll think so when
You've lost him. Come, come, dry your tears, now kiss me;
I should die happy, were you married well.
I am old--all this agitation kills me.

_Flor._ Nay, father, talk not so.

_Sir Sim._ You should obey me.
Your mother never dar'd oppose me thus;
She swore obedience, and I made her keep it.

_Flor._ [_Aside._] My mother, she died young, and yet too old;
The breath of her whole life was one long sigh;
She look'd like her own mourning effigy.
Her sad "good morrow" was as others say
"Good night." We never saw her smile but once,
And then we wept around her dying couch,
For 'twas the dazzling light of joy that stream'd
Upon her from the opening gates of heaven;
That smile was parted, she so gently died,
Between the wan corpse and the fleeting spirit.

_Sir Sim._ [_Aside._] She looks just like her mother.
That pale face
Making its sad obedience a reproach.
If she would flout, sulk, scold, resist my will,
I'd make her have him ere the day grew cold.

_Flor._ Her very kisses chill'd our infant brows;
She pluck'd the very flowers of daily life
As from a grave where Silence only wept,
And none but Hope lay buried. Her blue eyes
Were like Forget-me-nots, o'er which the shade
Of clouds still lingers when the moaning storm
Hath pass'd away in night. It mattered not,
They were the home from which tears never wander'd.

_Sir Sim._ [_Aloud._] I shall lose patience shortly.
Oh, that gout!
Here, girl, assist me. Would you see me fall?

_Flor._ Well, father, leave me to myself awhile.
I would obey you if I could.

_Sir Sim._ That's right.
You know I'm rough, b