Flor. 'Twere base to doubt it—yet I think not you: You know you could not tell if it were true, Your love might be a jest. [She goes up the stage.]
Arth. [following FLORENCE.] By heaven! No.
[WILLIAM and BARBARA come forward.]
Will. Young woman! I doubt not your attachment, nor wonder at your love; but it cannot be returned. Principle forbids; and this heart is blighted.
Barb. Plighted, or not, I want none of it. What nonsense the man talks!
Will. This beard—what think you of it?
Barb. That it is red.
Will. Yet 'tis not for you.
Barb. I would humbly desire so.
Will. Do you know, lively rustic, that the beard of Mars, the god of war, is auburnly inclined? It is much affected by the ladies of the south.