overtakes the one. The other, weeping and mourning, yet looks forward to the bright region where he ſhall meet his ſtill ſurviving partner, among trees and flowers which themſelves have planted, in fields of eternal verdure.
Amelia.
You may tell my father—I’ll marry. [Riſes.]
Analt [riſing].
This picture is pleaſing; but I muſt beg you not to forget that there is another on the ſame ſubject.—When convenience, and fair appearance joined to folly and ill-humour, forge the fetters of matrimony, they gall with their weight the married pair. Diſcontented with each other—at variance in opinions—their mutual averſion increaſes with the years they live together. They contend moſt, where they ſhould moſt unite; torment, where they ſhould moſt ſoothe. In this rugged way, choaked with the weeds of ſuſpicion, jealouſy, anger, and hatred, they take their daily journey, till one of theſe alſo ſleep in death. The other then lifts up his dejected head, and calls out in acclamations of joy—Oh, liberty! dear liberty!
Amelia.
I will not marry.
Anhalt.
You mean to ſay, you will not fall in love.
Amelia.
Oh no! [aſhamed] I am in love.
Anhalt.
Are in love! [ſtarting] And with the Count?
Amelia.
I wiſh I was.
Anhalt.
Why ſo?
