Loveyet. Those fond expectations, my lovely partner in trouble, shall soon be realized;—this is only the momentary caprice of old age.
Harriet. You must take care not to talk of age, before him.
Loveyet. Yes, my fair monitor; I shall think of that: and now permit me, in my turn, to give you a little advice.—In the first place, I would have you go to your father—fall at his feet—clasp your fair hands, thus—beseeching him in such terms as that gentle heart is so well form'd to dictate, and persuading him with the all-prevailing music of that tuneful voice, to recall his rigourous intention, nor doom such angelic goodness and beauty to despair, by persisting to oppose an alliance which alone can make you blest; and without which, the most faithful of lovers will be rendered the most wretched one on earth. I shall take a similar method with my old gentleman, and I think I can insure myself success.
Harriet. This is all very fine; but—to have the voluntary consent of the parent one loves,—how infinitely more agreeable! I would not offend mine, for the world: and yet—
Loveyet. And yet you will be obliged to offend him, by having me, eigh?
Harriet. Pshaw;—how strangely you misconstrue my meaning: I was going to observe, that I expect his obstinacy and pride will prove invincible, in spite of all the rhetoric you are pleased to ascribe to me.
Loveyet. Then we will employ a little rhetoric, against which another class of fathers are not quite so invincible.—Parsons are plenty, you know; and Gold and Silver are persuasive little words. Love inspires me with the spirit of prophecy, and tells me I shall soon with propriety call the loveliest of her sex, mine.
Harriet. You are very eloquent, Mr. Loveyet: I do not think the subject merits so many florid speeches.
Loveyet. Not merit them!—
'Tis not in human language, to define
Merit so rare, and beauty—so divine!
Then what avails this little praise of mine?