Bar. Nay, but dare I ask what are your employments for a day?
Mrs. H. Oh, my lord! you cannot imagine how quickly time passes when a certain uniformity guides the minutes of our life. How often do I ask, "Is Saturday come again so soon?" On a bright cheerful morning, my books and breakfast are carried out upon the grass plot. Then is the sweet picture of reviving industry and eager innocence always new to me. The birds' notes so often heard, still waken new ideas: the herds are led into the fields: the peasant bends his eye upon his plough. Every thing lives and moves; and in every creature's mind it seems as it were morning. Towards evening I begin to roam abroad: from the park into the meadows. And sometimes, returning, I pause to look at the village boys and girls as they play. Then do I bless their innocence, and pray to Heaven, those laughing, thoughtless hours, could be their lot for ever.
Bar. This is excellent!—But these are summer amusements.—The winter! the winter!
Mrs. H. Why for ever picture winter like old age, torpid, tedious, and uncheerful? Winter has its own delights: this is the time to instruct and mend the mind by reading and reflection. At this season, too, I often take my harp, and amuse myself by playing or singing the little favourite airs that remind me of the past, or solicit hope for the future.
Bar. Happy indeed are they who can thus create, and vary their own pleasures and employments.
Enter Peter.
Pet. Well—well—Pray now—I was ordered—I can keep him back no longer—He will come in.
Enter Tobias, forcing his way.
Tob. I must, good Heaven, I must!
Mrs. H. [Confused.] I have no time at present—I—I—You see I am not alone.