nk and fortune.

Lord WESTON. Thanks, my good lord! I doubt not your kind wishes;
But here, where all life's happiness depends,
Permit me to determine for myself.
True joys dwell only with united hearts,
And solitude is far the wiser choice
Than wedlock where domestic bliss is absent.
How vain is then the hope of such delights
With those of Fashion's stamp, whose only merit,
Is, that they are of this all-conqu'ring sex,
Of ev'ry other excellence regardless?

Lord BELMOUR. Again, young lord, I tell you, shou'd you wed
With the first merchant's daughter of the world,
'Twould to your lineage be disgrace for ever.

Lord WESTON. Disgrace lies only in the want of virtue,
That excellence, in which she most abounds.

Lord BELMOUR. How long have you surrender'd to this dotage?

Lord WESTON. Almost from infancy; for even then,
A mutual sympathy inspir'd our souls;
Which first commenc'd in her good father's house,
(Whom I then serv'd,) when all I knew of love,
Was that her presence ever gave me pleasure,
As did her absence pain--I even thought,
The air blew sweeter from the place she breath'd.
But when her heav'nly mind disclos'd its beauties,
My heart then fix'd beyond the power of change.

Lord BELMOUR. All, all romance, with which your head seems fill'd.
But briefly to decide this matter, know,
'Tis now full thirty summers since I wedded,
Yet have not had one offspring to inherit
My large possessions, which I can bestow,
As best my pleasure suits: and you're the one,
Who in my mind stands fairest for adoption;
My heir apparent, as my next a-kin.
Reflect too, that your income is unequal
To that high rank in life, it shou'd support.

Lord WESTON. The more I lose, the more I prize myself,
In persevering thus---but, my lov'd uncle!
What can impede the progress of my bliss,
When your consent hath sanctified my choice?

Lord BELMOUR. What though I yielded once to your fond suit,
It is now rumour'd, and by all believ'd,
Not only that her father is reduc'd
To bankruptcy and want, but that the whole
Of the large fortune which an uncle left her
Is wasted with the rest.

Lord WESTON. Is this her fault?
Is she to suffer for another's act?
Constantia hath that ever-during