I say but truth--I once was young myself.
Behold the means!

_Enter MARTHA WILSON, carrying a bunch of roses._

_Dimsdell._ Oh! Oh! [_Clasps his breast._]

_Roger._ Whither so fast, Martha, that thou canst not speak to us?

_Martha._ Oh! I beg your pardon, Doctor. Good morning, sir. I seek
my father; is he with the Governor?

_Roger._ Knowledge is costly, Martha; yet thou art rich enough to
buy more than information. For one of those sweet roses, I'll tell
you he is well and with the Governor.

_Martha._ You beg it prettily. [_Giving Roger a rose._

_Roger._ Pure and fragrant as the giver--marry, the blush becomes it
not so well; it does not come and go. Martha, thy father and the
Governor are in the library. Is that not worth another rose?

_Martha._ Nay, only a very little one; for when he talks of books
he's always loath to come with me.

_Roger._ Nay, slander him not. But, Martha, books or no books, for
two more roses I will bring him here; and, truly, fathers were cheap
at three roses apiece. What say you?

_Martha._ Nay, I'll go myself; but do not think I grudge the roses;
here they are. You have not begged of me [_To Dimsdell_]. May I beg
you to accept this? Gentlemen, farewell. [_Exit Martha._

_Roger._ Roses, and you asked her not!
In love! in love! up to the eyes in love!
She'll drown in love unless you marry her!

_Dimsdell._ Oh! that I were worthy of her!

_Roger._ Dost love her, Dimsdell? Ah! she's worthy love.
She's fair and young; of gentle birth and rich;
And warm and pure and spirit-like as flame
That floats above new brandy.

_Dimsdell._ Out upon thee, satyr! Thou dishonorest her.

_Roger._ Not a whit. Is't dishonor to her purity
To urge thy smoky flame to brightness worthy
Of her? 'Tis what she wishes most; witness
Her confusion and her telltale blushes.
Do me justice, man; my thoughts are pure
And dwell on lawful marriage only. Thou, thou
Alone, couldst see impurity in that.
I spoke of thee, man, of thee; and who
Beside thyself would think a mottled thought
Could touch a maiden linked to thee in words
Or fact?

_Dimsdell._ Oh! Oh! [_Clutching at his breast._

_Roger._ Had I young daughters by the score, each fair
As Hebe, as voluptuous as Venus,
All thinly clad as in the golden age,
I could not wish a chaster keeper of them.
Nay, had I wives in droves like Solomon,
I'd m