,
With a deep sigh to be _himself_ again.

_Will._ One would not think, Sir, how much blood had stain'd
Old England, since we left her, finding thus
All things so peaceful; but one thing I mark'd
As we did skirt the village.

_Arth._ What was that?

_Will._ The king's face was defac'd--the sign o' the inn
At jolly Master Gurton's--mind you not
How sad it look'd? Yet 'neath it I've been gay,
A time or two; 'tis not my fortune now:
Those bright Italian skies have even marr'd
My judgment of clear ale.

_Arth._ I'faith 'twill need
A marvellous scant repair.

_Will._ One jovial day
Of honest mud and wholesome English fog.

_Arth._ That sign! 'twas once the royal head of James;
Some thirsty limner passing made it Charles;
I've heard it said 'twas e'en our good Queen Bess,
By curious folk that trac'd her high starch'd ruff
In the quaint faded back of antique chair,
Her stomacher in Charles's shrivell'd vest--
Who in his turn is gone. Well, take this letter,
See the old knight; but not a word to him.
Stay, I forgot, my little rosy cousin
Should be a woman now; thus--full of wiles,
Glancing behind the man that trusts her love
To his best friend, and wanton with the girls
She troops with, in such trifling, foolish sort,
To turn the stomach of initiate man.
Fie! I care not to hear of her; yet ask
If she be well. Commend me to my brother;
Thou wilt not tarry--he will give thee gold,
And haste to welcome me--go! At the inn
We'll meet some two hours hence.

[_Exit R._]

_Will._ Hem! I doubt much
About this welcoming.--Sad human Nature!
This brother was a careful, godly youth
That kept accounts, and smiling pass'd a beggar,
Saying, "Good-morrow, friend," yet never gave.
Where head doth early ripen, heart comes late--
Therefore, I say, I doubt this welcoming. [_Exeunt._]

SCENE II.

[_Last Cut._] [_2nd Grooves._]

_An Apartment in a Manor House._

_Enter BASIL WALTON and FLORENCE, R._

_Basil._ [_following Florence._] I'll break thy haughty spirit!

_Flor._ Will you, sir?--
'Tis base, ungentle, and unmannerly,
Because, forsooth, you covet my poor wealth,
Which likes me not, as I care not for it,
To persecute a helpless girl like me.

_Basil._ I will protect thee; but accept my love.
Nay, do not frown so.

_Flor._ Love! say'st thou? Profane,
Vile misuse of that sacred word. Away!
Touch not my hand with your cold fingers--Off!

_Basil._ Thou foolish