wouldst believe I love not Master Waller?
I never knew what love was, Lydia;
That is, as your romances have it.  First,
I married for a fortune.  Having that,
And being freed from him that brought it me,
I marry now, to please my vanity,
A man that is the fashion.  O the delight
Of a sensation, and yourself the cause!
To note the stir of eyes, and ears, and tongues,
When they do usher Mistress Waller in,
Late Widow Green, her hand upon the arm
Of her young, handsome husband!—How my fan
Will be in requisition—I do feel
My heart begin to flutter now—my blood
To mount into my cheek!  My honeymoon
Will be a month of triumphs!—“Mistress Waller!”
That name, for which a score of damsels sigh,
And but the widow had the wit to win!
Why, it will be the talk of east to west,
And north and south!—The children loved the man,
And lost him so—I liked, but there I stopped;
For what is it to love, but mind and heart
And soul upon another to depend?
Depend upon another?  Nothing be
But what another wills?  Give up the rights
Of mine own brain and heart?  I thank my stars
I never came to that extremity.

[Goes out.]

Lydia.  She never loved, indeed!  She knows not love,
Except what’s told of it!  She never felt it.
To stem a torrent, easy, looking at it;
But once you venture in, you nothing know
Except the speed with which you’re borne away,
Howe’er you strive to check it.  She suspects not
Her maid, not she, brings Master Waller hither.
Nor dare I undeceive her.  Well might she say
Her young and handsome husband!  Yet his face
And person are the least of him, and vanish
When shines his soul out through his open eye!
He all but says he loves me!  His respect
Has vanquished me!  He looks the will to speak
His passion, and the fear that ties his tongue—
The fear?  He loves not honestly, and yet
I’ll swear he loves—I’ll swear he honours me!
It is but my condition is a bar,
Denies him give me all.  But knew he me
As I do know myself!  Whate’er his purpose,
When next we speak, he shall declare it to me.

[Goes out.]

SCENE III.—Sir William Fondlove’s.

[Enter Constance, dressed for riding, and Phœbe.]

Con.  Well, Phœbe, would you know me?  Are those locks
That cluster on my forehead and my cheek,
Sufficient mask?  Show I what I would seem,
A lady for the chase?  My darkened brows
And heightened colour, foreign to my face,
Do they my face pass off for stranger too?
What think you?

Phœbe.  That he’ll ne’er discover you.

Con.  Then send him to me.  Say a lady wants
To speak with him, unless indeed it be
A man in lady’s gear; I look so bold
And speak so gruff.  Away!  [Phœbe goes out.]  That I am glad
He stays in town, I own, but if I am,
’Tis only for the tricks I’ll play upon him,
And now begin, persuading him his fame
Hath made me fancy him, and brought me hither
On visit to his worship.  Soft, his foot!
This he?  Why, what has metamorphosed him.
And changed my sportsman to fine gentleman?
Well he becomes his clothes!  But, check my wonder,
Lest I forget myself.  Why, what an air
The fellow hath.  A man to set a cap at!

[Enter Wildrake.]

Wild.  Kind lady, I attend your fair commands.

Con.  My veiléd face denies me justice, sir,
Else would you see a maiden’s blushing cheek
Do penance for her forwardness; too late,
I own, repented of.  Yet if ’tis true,
By our own hearts of others we may judge,
Mine in no peril lies that’s shown to you,
Whose heart, I’m sure, is noble.  Worthy sir,
Souls attract souls when they’re of kindred vein.
The life that you love, I love.  Well I know,
’Mongst those who breast the feats of the bold chase,
You stand without a peer; and for myself
I dare avow ’mong such, none follows them
With heartier glee than I do.

Wild.  Churl were he
That would gainsay you, madam.

Con.  [Curtseying.]  What delight
To back the flying steed, that challenges
The wind for speed!—seems native more of air
Than earth!—whose burden only lends him fire!—
Whose soul, in his task, turns labour into sport;
Who makes your pastime his!  I sit him now!
He takes away my breath!  He makes me reel!
I touch not earth—I see not—hear not.  All
Is ecstasy of motion!

Wild.  You are used,
I see, to the chase.

Con.  I am, sir.  Then the leap,
To see the saucy barrier, and know
The mettle that can clear it!  Then, your time
To prove you master of the manège.  Now
You keep him well together for a space,
Both horse and rider braced as you were one,
Scanning the distance—then you give him rein,
And let him fly at it, and o’er he goes
Light as a bird on wing.

Wild. ’Twere a bold leap,
I see, that turned you, madam.

Con.  [Curtseying.]  Sir, you’re good!
And then the hounds, sir!  Nothing I admire
Beyond the running of the well-trained pack.
The training’s everything!  Keen on the scent!
At fault none losing heart!—but all at work!
None leaving his task to another!—answering
The watchful huntsman’s cautions, check, or cheer.
As steed his rider’s rein!  Away they go
How close they keep together!  What a pack!
Nor turn, nor ditch, nor stream divides them—as
They moved with one intelligence, act, will!
And then the concert they keep up!—enough
To make one tenant of the merry wood,
To list their jocund music!

Wild.  You describe
The huntsman’s pastime to the life.

Con.  I love it!
To wood and glen, hamlet and town, it is
A laughing holiday!  Not a hill-top
But’s then alive!  Footmen with horsemen vie,
All earth’s astir, roused with the revelry
Of vigour, health, and joy!  Cheer awakes cheer,
While Echo’s mimic tongue, that never tires,
Keeps up the hearty din!  Each face is then
Its neighbour’s glass—where Gladness sees itself,
And at the bright reflection grows more glad!
Breaks into tenfold mirth!—laughs like a child!
Would make a gift of its heart, it is so free!
Would scarce accept a kingdom, ’tis so rich!
Shakes hands with all, and vows it never knew
That life was life before!

Wild.  Nay, every way
You do fair justice, lady, to the chase;
But fancies change.

Con.  Such fancy is not mine.

Wild.  I would it were not mine, for your fair sake.
I have quite given o’er the chase.

Con.  You say not so!

Wild.  Forsworn, indeed, the sportsman’s life, and grown,
As you may partly see, town-gentleman.
I care not now to mount a steed, unless
To amble ’long the street; no paces mind,
Except my own, to walk the drawing-room,
Or in the ball-room to come off with grace;
No leap for me, to match the light coupé;
No music like the violin and harp,
To which the huntsman’s dog and horn I find
Are somewhat coarse and homely minstrelsy:
Then fields of ill-dressed rustics, you’ll confess,
Are well exchanged for rooms of beaux and belles
In short, I’ve ta’en another thought of life—
Become another man!

Con.  The cause, I pray?

Wild.  The cause of causes, lady.

Con.  He’s in love!  [Aside.]

Wild.  To you, of women, I would name it last;
Yet