Theod. Ha!
Aust. Does it shake thee?——Come, my Theodore,
Let not a gust of love-sick inclination
Root, like a sweeping whirlwind, from thy soul
All the fair growth of noble thoughts and virtue,
Thy mother planted in thy early youth;
Oh, rashly tread not down the promis'd harvest,
They toil'd to rear to the full height of honour!
Theod. Would I had liv'd obscure in penury,
Rather than thus!—Distraction!—Adelaide!