To shew you, sir,
The heart you make so light of, you are beloved -
But she that tells you so, tells you beside
She ne'er beholds you more!
[Goes out.]
Wal. Stay, Lydia!--No!
'Tis vain! She is in virtue resolute,
As she is bland and tender in affection.
She is a miracle, beholding which
Wonder doth grow on wonder! What a maid!
No mood but doth become her--yea, adorn her.
She turns unsightly anger into beauty!
Sour scorn grows sweetness, touching her sweet lips!
And indignation, lighting on her brow,
Transforms to brightness as the cloud to gold
That overhangs the sun! I love her! Ay!
And all the throes of serious passion feel
At thought of losing her!--so my light love,
Which but her person did at first affect,
Her soul has metamorphosed--made a thing
Of solid thoughts and wishes--I must have her!
[Enter WIDOW GREEN, unnoticed SIR WALLER, who continues abstracted.]
W. Green. What! Master Waller, and contemplative
Presumptive proof of love! Of me he thinks!
Revolves the point "to be or not to be!"
"To be!" by all the triumphs of my sex!
There was a sigh! My life upon't, that sigh,
If construed, would translate "Dear Widow Green!"
Wal. Enchanting woman!
W. Green. That is I!--most deep
Abstraction, sure concomitant of love.
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