I am the daughter of his father's friend, Sir Walter's orphan ward.
I am not his servant-maid, that I should wait The opportunity of a gracious hearing.
Enquire the times and seasons when to put My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet, And sue to him for slow redress, who was Himself a suitor late to Margaret.
I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride.
I was his favorite once, his playfellow in infancy, And joyful mistress of his youth.
None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret.
His conscience, his religion, Margaret was, His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart, And all dear things summ'd up in her alone.
As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died; His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all Being fashion'd to her liking.
His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem, His flatteries and caresses, while he loved.
The world esteem'd her happy, who had won His heart, who won all hearts; And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.
_Sand_.

He doth affect the courtier's life too much, Whose art is to forget, And that has wrought this seeming change in him, That was by nature noble.
'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house, Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy With images of state, preferment, place, Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.
_Marg_.

I know not how it is; A cold protector is John grown to me.
The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil Can never stoop so low to supplicate A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs, Which he was bound first to prevent; But which his own neglects have sanctioned rather, Both sancion'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect, And strangeness fastening bitter on his love, His love, which long has been upon the wane.
For me, I am determined what to do: To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John, And trust for food to the earth and Providence.
_Sand_.

O lady, have a care Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.
You know not half the dangers that attend Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now, Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger, To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely, Portray without its terrors, painting _lies_ And representments of fallacious liberty;-- You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.
_Marg_.

I have thought on every possible event, The dangers and discouragements you speak of, Even till my woman's heart hath ceased to fear them, And cowardice grows enamor'd of rare accidents; Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think, Of practicable schemes.
_Sand_.