Flor. Love! say'st thou? Profane, Vile misuse of that sacred word. Away! Touch not my hand with your cold fingers—Off!
Basil. Thou foolish child, wouldst throw thyself away
Upon some beggar? were he here, perchance
Thy cousin Arthur? Come, our lands unite,
Be prudent—
Flor. Prudent!
Oh, there is no match
Half so imprudent, as when interest
Makes two, in heart divided, one—no work
So vain, so mean, so heartless, dull and void,
As that of him who buys the hollow "yes"
From the pale lips where Love sits not enthron'd,
Nor fans with purple wing the bosom's fire.
Prudence! to waste a life, lose self-respect,
Or e'en the chance of love bestowed and met?—
Basil. Sweet cousin, wilt not love me?
Flor. No! nor wish To hate thee, could I help it—therefore, go!
Basil. Well then I must— [Seizes her hand.]
Flor. For pity's sake; if not I'll fly thee and my home.
Basil. Ha! leave your father, Desert the old man in his hour of need? Fine ethics, truly. [Advances.]
Flor. Heaven! Leave me, sir—
There something tells me Arthur will return,
Whom you have cozen'd of his heritage,
And then he'll aid me.
Basil. [Aside.] Hath she seen him then, Or heard? I must beware—