_]--would the time were over!--Pshaw! I think of it too
seriously--'Tis false--I do not.--Should her virtue yield to love, would
not remorse affect her health? should I not behold that lovely form
sicken and decay--perhaps die?--die! then what am I?--a villain, loaded
with her parents' curses and my own.--Let me fly from the dreadful
thought.--But how fly from it?--[_Calmly._]--By placing before my
imagination a picture of more honourable lineaments.--I make her my
wife.--Ah! then she would smile on me--there's rapture in the
thought;--instead of vice producing decay, I behold virtue emblazoning
beauty; instead of Susan on the bed of death, I behold her giving to my
hopes a dear pledge of our mutual love. She places it in my arms--down
her father's honest face runs a tear--but 'tis the tear of joy. Oh, this
will be luxury! paradise!--Come, Susan!--come, my love, my soul--my
_wife_.
_Enter_ SUSAN--_she at first hesitates--on hearing the word_ wife, _she
springs into his arms._
_Susan._ Is it possible?
_Handy, jun._ Yes, those charms have conquered.
_Susan.
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