Flor. I don’t believe it, Although he said it.

Eliz. Girl! he hath to do A secret and most dangerous mission.

Flor. What!  In truth!—­I’ll call him back to speak to you.

[Runs to the window.]

Ah! he has gallop’d off so fast without
Once turning.  Ah! to danger—­Oh, wretch! wretch! 
Fool that I am. [Weeps.]

Eliz. [To FLORENCE.] Poor child!  You love him, then?

Flor. Oh! yes, I love him all—­ All, for I am not vain.  There is no thought Dividing the wild worship of my soul.

Eliz. And yet you spoke so carelessly, and trifled
With this the noblest and the best oblation,
A woman—­but a poor divinity,
I fear at best, my Florence!—­may receive,
The heart of a true gentleman.  I mean
No creature of dull circumstance, himself
A mean incumbrance on his own great wealth. 
How oft before their lovers women try
To seem what they are not—­if true their hearts,
As thine is, apes not more fantastic show—­
If mean and paltry, frankness is the flag
’Neath which they trim their pirate, little bark
To capture their rich prize—­

Flor. Enough! enough! 
I know it all, I cannot help it, if
He were here now, I could not choose but do it. 
I have a head-ache.  I must weep alone. 
I pray you to excuse me for an hour.

[She goes out, R.S.E.]

Eliz. Poor girl! how needless is the pain she gives
Two true and faithful hearts—­and I myself,
That never had the chance to love, or heart
To give away, yet seem to know so well
What it must be.—­Oh, were I Florence now,
Could I have dealt so harshly with him?—­No! 
Why, one would think I lov’d him.  She said so
But yesterday.  Indeed I love them both—­
Him for his love of her.  Elizabeth! 
Why burns thy cheek thus?—­Yet a transient thought
Might stain the wanderings of a seraph’s dream,
And thou art mortal woman.  Oh, beware! 
Dwell not on “might have,” “could;” since “cannot be”
Points from thy past to thy futurity. [Exit, L.]

SCENE IV.

[4th Grooves.]

A rustic Garden, with an Arbour in F. A Table, on which are Books, Papers, &c.

Enter ARTHUR, U.E.R.

Arth. She’s soul-less like the rest, and I am but
A tame romantic fool to worship her—­
I will not see her more, and thus the faults
Which, from her beauty, seem’d like others’ charms,
Shall give her semblance of a Gorgon—­
No! 
Rather her beauty will so soften down
In sweet forgetfulness of all beside,
That growing frenzied at the loss I find
E’en shipwreck’d hope were better than despair. 
Here comes my friend.

Enter MILTON slowly, L.

Arth. Good even, Master Milton.