Maria. Love him! Sir, I adore him, and in spite of your utmost opposition, ever, ever shall.
Old P. Oh, ruined! undone—what a wretched old man I am—but, Maria, child—
Maria. Think not to dissuade me, sir—vain attempt—no, sir, my affections are fixed never to be recalled.
Old P. Oh dear, what shall I do? what will become of me? Oh, a plague on my plots—I’ve lost my daughter, and for ought I know, my son too—why child, he’s a poor beggar, he’s not worth a sixpence.
Maria. My soul abhors so low a thought—I despise wealth—know, sir, I cherish nobler sentiments.
The generous youth shall own,
I love him for himself alone.
Old P. What, poetry too—nay then, it is time to prevent further mischief—go to your room—a good key shall assure your safety, and this young rascal shall go back to sea, and his yeo, yeo, yeo, if he will.
Maria. (going) I obey your harsh commands, sir, and am gone—but, alas! I leave my heart behind.