You mean, perhaps, my lord, those slaves of fashion,
Who barter real for fictitious happiness;
Alas! Their judgment is not worth a thought:
If I'm approv'd of by the wife and honest,
I shall be happy, and despise that world,
Where virtue is discourag'd,--vice exalted,--
Corruption an adopted cherish'd system,
And ev'ry manly sentiment extinguish'd.

Lord BELMOUR. For shame, young lord, call reason to your aid!

Lord WESTON. From beauty only, it might have preserv'd me;
But reason is Constantia's ceaseless advocate.

Lord BELMOUR. Once more forsake her, if you prize my favour,
The world's esteem, or your own future welfare.
Away to distant regions; seek improvement;
There is no love that absence cannot cure.

Lord WESTON. Absence!--No death transcends that thought.--O sir!
My fondness is to such excess, so true,
That were heav'n's bliss assur'd me to forsake her,
My soul might tremble for its own resolve.
But what would worlds be worth with loss of honour!
With loss of peace, its constant sure attendant!

Lord BELMOUR. Since then all soothing arguments are fruitless;
'Tis fit t' apprize you that you yet remain
Under my wardship by your father's will;
And now to wed would be by law a nullity.