worth,
Which wealth or grandeur's glitter far outweighs:
That heav'nly mind, which will, when time hath cool'd
The fever of the heart, and reason rules,
Cause mutual friendship and domestic blessing.
But shou'd ev'n this misfortune be as rumour'd,
I have this one occasion more of proving
My constancy, and how I prize her virtues;
Then, to secure for ever that esteem
By me preferr'd to all terrestrial blessings.

Lord BELMOUR. Infatuated boy! you form perfections
Which only have existence in your fancy.
But pray, consider, what the world will say.

Lord WESTON. The world! base world! to censure gen'rous deeds;
You mean, perhaps, my lord, those slaves of fashion,
Who barter real for fictitious happiness;
Alas! Their judgment is not worth a thought:
If I'm approv'd of by the wife and honest,
I shall be happy, and despise that world,
Where virtue is discourag'd,--vice exalted,--
Corruption an adopted cherish'd system,
And ev'ry manly sentiment extinguish'd.

Lord BELMOUR. For shame, young lord, call reason to your aid!

Lord WESTON. From beauty only, it might have preserv'd me;
But reason is Constantia's ceaseless advocate.

Lord BELMOUR. Once more forsake her, if you prize my favour,
The world's esteem, or your own future welfare.
Away to distant regions; seek improvement;
There is no love that absence cannot cure.

Lord WESTON. Absence!--No death transcends that thought.--O sir!
My fondness is to such excess, so true,
That were heav'n's bliss assur'd me to forsake her,
My soul might tremble for its own resolve.
But what would worlds be worth with loss of honour!
With loss of peace, its constant sure attendant!

Lord BELMOUR. Since then all soothing arguments are fruitless;
'Tis fit t' apprize you that you yet remain
Under my wardship by your father's will;
And now to wed would be by law a nullity.

Lord WESTON. Unrighteous, partial law! whose keen restraint
'Gainst female innocence alone is pointed,
Whilst villains riot in its spoils unpunish'd;
So that love's chaste, connubial joys no more,
On its fleet wings, but in the tardy pace
Of sordid interest move. But, thank kind heaven!
My will is free to choose; else, my good lord,
The parish proofs deceive.
Lord BELMO