Flor. Dear father! Hear me!
Sir Sim. Mark!
You're not of legal age—I'll drive you forth.
I'd rather see you dead, here, at my feet,
Than baulk my counsels thus. Nay, try and see
If sentiment will feed you, trick you out.
O, who would be a father?
Flor. Have I not E'er shown you love and duty?
Sir Sim. Then obey! If I'd said nought—Oh! then you'd been in love With him, against my will—
Flor. No, sir, indeed! Spare me—I'll think—I'll try. Be kind to me!
Sir Sim. Well, well, child, 'tis not right to treat me thus:
If I were full of passion—harsh, unkind,
Your conduct were less cruel. But, you'll kill
The old man some day with your cruelty.
You don't care for him—not you; yet he acts
All for your good. Some day you'll think so when
You've lost him. Come, come, dry your tears, now kiss me;
I should die happy, were you married well.
I am old—all this agitation kills me.
Flor. Nay, father, talk not so.
Sir Sim. You should obey me. Your mother never dar'd oppose me thus; She swore obedience, and I made her keep it.
Flor. [Aside.] My mother, she died young, and yet too old;
The breath of her whole life was one long sigh;
She look'd like her own mourning effigy.
Her sad "good morrow" was as others say
"Good night." We never saw her smile but once,
And then we wept around her dying couch,
For 'twas the dazzling light of joy that stream'd
Upon her from the opening gates of heaven;
That smile was parted, she so gently died,
Between the wan corpse and the fleeting spirit.
Sir Sim. [Aside.] She looks just like her mother.
That pale face
Making its sad obedience a reproach.
If she would flout, sulk, scold, resist my will,
I'd make her have him ere the day grew cold.