Charles. Dearest dear Helen! and has your anger then no other cause? surely you could not blame a resentment which was the offspring of my fond affection?
Helen. No! to be sure I couldn’t, who could!—but what should I not have to dread from the violence of your temper, if I consented—to run away with you?
Charles. Run away with me!—no!—zounds I’ve a chaise in waiting—
Helen. Have you?—then pray let it wait,—no! no! Charles—though I haven’t scrupled to own an affection for you, I have too much respect for the world’s opinion,—let us wait with patience,—time may rectify that impetuosity of character, which is now, I own, my dread; think of it, Charles, and beware; for affection is a frail flower, reared by the hand of gentleness, and perishes as surely by the shocks of violence as by the more gradual poison of neglect.
Charles. Dearest Helen! I will cherish it in my heart—’tis a rough soil I own, but ’tis a warm one; and when the hand of delicacy shall have cultivated this flower that is rooted there, the blossom shall be everlasting love!
Helen. Ah you men!—you men! but—I think I may be induced to try you.—Meantime, accept my hand, dear Charles, as a pledge of my heart, and as the assurance that it shall one day be your own indeed (he kisses her hand.) There you needn’t eat it—there!—now make your escape, and farewell till we meet again.—(They are going out severally)
Enter sir Rowland and sir Willoughby, at opposite sides.
Charles. Zounds! my father!
Helen. Gad-a-mercy! my papa!
Sir R. So, sir! you are here again I find!