Lord WESTON. The more I lose, the more I prize myself,
In persevering thus---but, my lov'd uncle!
What can impede the progress of my bliss,
When your consent hath sanctified my choice?

Lord BELMOUR. What though I yielded once to your fond suit,
It is now rumour'd, and by all believ'd,
Not only that her father is reduc'd
To bankruptcy and want, but that the whole
Of the large fortune which an uncle left her
Is wasted with the rest.

Lord WESTON. Is this her fault?
Is she to suffer for another's act?
Constantia hath that ever-during worth,
Which wealth or grandeur's glitter far outweighs:
That heav'nly mind, which will, when time hath cool'd
The fever of the heart, and reason rules,
Cause mutual friendship and domestic blessing.
But shou'd ev'n this misfortune be as rumour'd,
I have this one occasion more of proving
My constancy, and how I prize her virtues;
Then, to secure for ever that esteem
By me preferr'd to all terrestrial blessings.

Lord BELMOUR. Infatuated boy! you form perfections
Which only have existence in your fancy.
But pray, consider, what the world will say.

Lord WESTON. The world! base world! to censure gen'rous deeds;