Ber. What fools are serious melancholy villains!
I play a surer game, and screen my heart
With easy looks and undesigning smiles;
And while my plots still spring from sober thought,
My deeds appear th' effect of wild caprice,
And I the thoughtless slave of giddy chance.
What but this frankness could have won the promise
Of young Orlando, to confide to me
That secret grief which preys upon his heart?
'Tis shallow, indiscreet hypocrisy
To seem too good: I am the careless Bertrand,
The honest, undesigning, plain, blunt man.
The follies I avow cloak those I hide;
For who will search where nothing seems conceal'd?
'Tis rogues of solid, prudent, grave demeanour
Excite suspicion; men on whose dark brow
Discretion, with his iron hand, has grav'd
The deep-mark'd characters of thoughtfulness.
Here comes my uncle, venerable Guildford,
Whom I could honour, were he not the sire
Of that aspiring boy, who fills the gap
'Twixt me and fortune: Rivers, how I hate thee!

How fares my noble uncle?

Guild.Honest Bertrand!
I must complain we have soseldom met:
Where do you keep? believe me, we have miss'd you.

Ber. O, my good lord! your pardon—spare me, sir,
For there are follies in a young man's life,
Vain schemes and thoughtless hours which I should blush
To lay before your wise and temperate age.

Guild. Well, be it so—youth has a privilege,
And I should be asham'd could I forget
I have myself been young, and harshly chide
This not ungraceful gaiety. Yes, Bertrand,
Prudence becomes moroseness, when it makes
A rigid inquisition of the fault,
Not of the man, perhaps, but of his youth.
Foibles that shame the head on which old Time
Has shower'd his snow are then more pardonable,
And age has many a weakness of its own.

Ber. Your gentleness, my lord, and mild reproof,
Correct the wand'rings of misguided youth,
More than rebuke, and shame me into virtue.

Guild. Saw you my beauteous ward, the Lady Julia?

Ber. She past this way, and with her your fair daughter,
Your Emmelina.

Guild. Call them both my daughters;
For scarce is Emmelina more belov'd
Than Julia, the dear child of my adoption.
The hour approaches too, (and bless it, heav'n,
With thy benignest kindliest influence!)
When Julia shall indeed become my daughter,
Shall, in obedience to her father's will,
Crown the impatient vows of my brave son,
And richly pay him for his dangers past.

Ber. Oft have I wonder'd how the gallant Rivers,
Youthful and ardent, doting to excess,
Could dare the dangers of uncertain war,
Ere marriage had confirm'd his claim to Julia.

Guild. 'Twas the condition of her father's will,
My brave old fellow-soldier, and my friend!
He wish'd to see our ancient houses join'd
By this, our children's union; but the veteran
So highly valued military prowess,
That he bequeath'd his fortunes and his daughter
To my young Rivers, on these terms alone,
That he should early gain renown in arms;
And if he from the field return'd a conqueror,
That sun which saw him come victorious home
Should witness their espousals. Yet he comes not!
The event of war is to the brave uncertain,
Nor can desert in arms ensure success.

Ber. Yet fame speaks loudly of his early valour.

Guild. Ere since th' Italian Count, the young Orlando,
My Rivers' bosom friend, has been my guest,
The glory of my son is all his theme:
Oh! he recounts his virtues with such joy,
Dwells on his merit with a zeal so warm,
As to his gen'rous heart pays back again
The praises he bestows.

Ber. Orlando's noble.
He's of a tender, brave, and gallant nature,
Of honour most romantic, with such graces
As charm all womankind.

Guild. And here comes one,
To whom the story of Orlando's praise
Sounds like sweet music.

Ber. What, your charming daughter!
Yes, I suspect she loves th' Italian Count:[Aside.
That must not be. Now to observe her closely.

Guild. Come hither, Emmelina: we were speaking
Of the young Count Orlando. What think you
Of this accomplish'd stranger?

Em. (confused.) Of Orlando?
Sir, as my father's guest, my brother's friend,
I do esteem the Count.

Guild. Nay, he has merit
Might justify thy friendship if he wanted
The claims thou mention'st; yet I mean to blame him.

Em. What has he done? How has he wrong'd my father?
For you are just, and are not angry lightly;
And he is mild, unapt to give offence,
As you to be offended.

Guild. Nay, 'tis not much:
But why does young Orlando shun my presence?
Why lose that cheerful and becoming spirit
Which lately charm'd us all? Rivers will chide us,
Should he return, and find his friend unhappy.
He is not what he was. What says my child?

Em. My lord, when first my brother's friend arriv'd——
Be still, my heart.[Aside.

Ber. She dares not use his name.
Her brother's friend![Aside.

Em. When first your noble guest
Came from that voyage, he kindly undertook
To ease our terrors for my Rivers' safety,
When we believ'd him dead; he seem'd most happy,
And shar'd the gen'ral joy his presence gave.
Of late he is less gay; my brother's absence
(Or I mistake) disturbs his friend's repose:
Nor is it strange; one mind informs them both;
Each is the very soul that warms the other,
And both are wretched, or are bless'd together.

Ber. Why trembles my fair cousin?

Em. Can I think
That my lov'd brother's life has been in danger,
Nor feel a strong emotion?

Ber. (ironically.) Generous pity!
But when that danger has so long been past,
You should forget your terrors.

Em. I shall never.
For when I think that danger sprung from friendship;
That Rivers, to preserve another's life,
Incurr'd this peril, still my wonder rises.

Ber. And why another's life? Why not Orlando's?
Such caution more betrays than honest freedom.

Guild. He's still the same, the gibing, thoughtless Bertrand,
Severe of speech, but innocent of malice.

Ber. Stay, my fair cousin! still with adverse eyes
Am I beheld? Had I Orlando's form,
I mean, were I like him, your brother's friend,
Then would your looks be turn'd thus coldly on me?

Em. But that I know your levity means nothing,
And that your heart accords not with your tongue,
This would offend me.

Ber. Come, confess the truth,
That this gay Florentine, this Tuscan rover,
Has won your easy heart, and given you his:
I know the whole; I'm of his secret council;
He has confess'd——

Em. Ha! what has he confess'd?

Ber. That you are wond'rous fair: nay, nothing further:
How disappointment fires her angry cheek![Aside.
Yourself have told the rest, your looks avow it;
Your eyes are honest, they conceal no secrets.

Em. Know, Sir, that virtue no concealment needs:
So far from dreading, she solicits notice,
And wishes every secret thought she harbours
Bare to the eye of men, as 'tis to Heav'n.

Ber. Yet mark me well: trust not Orlando's truth;
The citron groves have heard his amorous vows
Breath'd out to many a beauteous maid of Florence;
Bred in those softer climes, his roving heart
Ne'er learn'd to think fidelity a virtue:
He laughs at tales of British constancy.
But see, Orlando comes—he seeks you here.
With eyes bent downwards, folded arms, pale cheeks
Disorder'd looks, and negligent attire,
And all the careless equipage of love,
He bends this way. Why does the mounting blood
Thus crimson your fair cheek? He does not see us—
I'll venture to disturb his meditations,
And instantly return.

Em. No more; but leave me.
He's talkative but harmless, rude but honest;
Fuller of mirth than mischief.—See they meet—
This way they come: why am I thus alarm'd?
What is't to me that here Orlando comes?
Oh for a little portion of that art
Ungenerous men ascribe to our whole sex!
A little artifice were prudence now:
But I have none; my poor unpractis'd heart
Is so unknowing of dissimulation,
So little skill'd to seem the thing it is not,
That if my lips are mute my looks betray me.

Ber. Now to alarm her heart, and search out his.

Or. We crave your pardon, beauteous Emmelina,
If rudely we intrude upon your thoughts;
Thoughts pure as infants' dreams or angels' wishes,
And gentle as the breast from which they spring.

Or. What was his answer?

Em. He said 'twas sport for heroes, and made heroes;
That hunting was the very school of war,
Taught our brave youth to shine in nobler fields,
Preserv'd 'em from the rust of dull inaction,
Trained 'em for arms, and fitted them for conquest.

Or. O, my fair advocate! scarce can I grieve
To have done wrong, since my offence has gain'd
So sweet a pleader.

Ber. (aside.) So, I like this well;
Full of respect, but cold.

Em. My Lord, your pardon;
My father waits my coming: I attend him.

Ber. In truth, my Lord, you're a right happy man;
Her parting look proclaims that you are bless'd;
The crimson blushes on her cheek display'd
A gentle strife 'twixt modesty and love:
Discretion strove to dash the rising joy,
But conquering love prevail'd and told the tale.
My Lord, you answer not.

Or. What shall I say?
Oh, couldst thou read my heart!

Ber. The hour is come
When my impatient friendship claims that trust
Which I so oft have press'd, and you have promis'd.

Or. I cannot tell thee; 'tis a tale of guilt:
How shall I speak? my resolution sickens;
All virtuous men will shun me; thou wilt scorn me,
And fly the foul contagion of my crime.

Ber. My bosom is not steel'd with that harsh prudence
Which would reproach thy failings; tell me all:
The proudest heart loves to repose its faults
Upon a breast that has itself a tincture
Of human weakness: I have frailties too,
Frailties that teach me how to pity thine.
What! silent still? Thou lov'st my beauteous cousin!
Have I not guess'd?

Or. I own that she has charms
Might warm a frozen stoic into love,
Tempt hermits back again to that bad world
They had renounc'd, and make religious men
Forgetful of their holy vows to heaven:
Yet, Bertrand—come, I'll tell thee all my weakness;
Thou hast a tender, sympathising heart——
Thou art not rigid to a friend's defects.
That heavenly form I view with eyes as cold
As marble images of lifeless saints:
I see, and know the workmanship divine;
My judgment owns her exquisite perfections;
But my rebellious heart denies her claim.

Ber. What do I hear! you love her not!

Or. Oh, Bertrand!
For pity do not hate me: but thou must;
For am I not at variance with myself?
Yet shall I wrong her gentle trusting nature,
And spurn the heart I labour'd to obtain?
She loves me, Bertrand; oh, too sure she loves me;
Loves me with tenderest, truest, chastest passion;
Loves me, oh, barbarous fate! as I love—Julia.

Ber. Heard I aright? Did you not speak of Julia?
Julia, the lovely ward of my good uncle?
Julia! the mistress of your friend, of Rivers?

Or. Go on, go on, and urge me with my guilt;
Display my crime in all its native blackness:
Tell me some legend of infernal falsehood,
Tell me some dreadful tale of perjur'd friends,
Of trust betray'd, of innocence deceiv'd:
Place the dire chronicle before my eyes;
Inflame the horror, aggravate the guilt,—
That I may see the evils which await me;
Nor pull such fatal mischiefs on my head,
As with my ruin must involve the fate
Of all I love on earth.

Ber. Just as I wish.[Aside.

Or. Thou know'st I left my native Italy,
Directed hither by the noble Rivers,
To ease his father's fears, who thought he fell
In that engagement where we both were wounded:
His was a glorious wound, gain'd in the cause
Of gen'rous friendship; for an hostile spear,
Aim'd at my breast, Rivers in his receiv'd,
Saved my devoted life, and won my soul.

Ber. So far I knew; but what of Emmelina?

Or. Whether her gentle beauties first allur'd me,
Or whether peaceful scenes and rural shades,
Or leisure, or the want of other objects,
Or solitude, apt to engender love,
Engag'd my soul, I know not; but I lov'd her.
We were together always, till the habit
Grew into something like necessity.
When Emmelina left me I was sad,
Nor knew a joy till Emmelina came;
Her soft society amus'd my mind,
Fill'd up my vacant heart, and touch'd my soul:
'Twas gratitude, 'twas friendship, 'twas esteem,
'Twas reason, 'twas persuasion,—nay, 'twas love.

Ber. But where was Julia?

Or. Oh, too soon she came:
For when I saw that wondrous form of beauty,
I stood entranc'd, like some astronomer,
Who, as he views the bright expanse of heaven,
Finds a new star. I gaz'd and was undone;
Gaz'd, and forgot the tender Emmelina;
Gaz'd, and forgot the gen'rous, trusting Rivers;
Forgot my faith, my friendship, and my honour.

Ber. Does Julia know your love?

Or. Forbid it, heaven!
What! think'st thou I am so far gone in guilt
As boldly to avow it? Bertrand, no;
For all the kingdoms of the spacious earth
I would not wrong my friend, or damn my honour.

Ber. Trust me, you judge too hardly of yourself.

Or. Think I have lodg'd a secret in thy breast
On which my peace, my fame, my all depends:
Long have I struggled with the fatal truth,
And scarce have dared to breathe it to myself;
For, oh, too surely the first downward step,
The treacherous path that leads to guilty deeds,
Is to make sin familiar to the thoughts.

Ber. Am I awake?—No: 'tis delusion all!
My wildest wishes never soar'd to this;
Fortune anticipates my plot: he loves her,
Loves just whom I would have him love—loves Julia!
Orlando, yes, I'll play thee at my will:
Poor puppet! thou hast trusted to my hand
The strings by which I'll move thee to thy ruin,
And make thee, too, the instrument of vengeance,
Of glorious vengeance, on the man I hate.

Jul. How many cares perplex the maid who loves!
Cares which the vacant heart can never know.
You fondly tremble for a brother's life;
Orlando mourns the absence of a friend,
Guildford is anxious for a son's renown.
In my poor heart your various terrors meet,
With added fears and fonder apprehensions:
They all unite in me, I feel for all,—
His life, his fame, his absence, and his love:
For he may live to see his native home,
And he may live to bless a sister's hopes,
May live to gratify impatient friendship,
May live to crown a father's house with honour,
May live to glory, yet be dead to love.

Em. Forbear these fears; they wound my brother's honour:
Julia, a brave man must be ever faithful;
Cowards alone dare venture to be false;
Cowards alone dare injure trusting virtue,
And with bold perjuries affront high heaven.

Jul. I know his faith, and venerate his virtues;
I know his heart is tender as 'tis brave:
That all his father's worth, his sister's softness,
Meet in his generous breast—and yet I fear——
Who ever lov'd like me, and did not fear?

Guild. Where are my friends, my daughter where is Julia?
How shall I speak the fulness of my heart?
My son, my Rivers, will this day return.

Em. My dearest brother!

Jul. Ha! my Rivers comes!
Propitious heaven!

Em. And yet my Julia trembles.

Jul. Have I not cause? my Rivers comes! but how?
I dread to ask, and yet I die to hear.
My lord—you know the terms——

Guild. He comes a conqueror!
He comes as Guildford's son should ever come!
The battle's o'er, the English arms successful;
And Rivers, like an English warrior, hastes
To lay his laurels at the feet of beauty.

Jul. My joy oppresses me!

Em. And see, Orlando!
How will the welcome news transport his soul,
And raise his drooping heart! With caution tell him,
Lest the o'erwhelming rapture be too much
For his dejected mind.

Jul. My Lord Orlando,
Wherefore that troubled air? No more you dwell
On your once darling theme; you speak no more
The praises of your Rivers: is he chang'd?
Is he not still the gallant friend you lov'd,
As virtuous and as valiant?

Or. Still the same;
He must be ever virtuous, ever valiant.

Em. If Rivers is the same, then must I think
Orlando greatly chang'd; you speak not of him,
Nor long for his return, as you were wont.
How did you use to spend the live-long day
In telling some new wonders of your friend,
Till night broke in upon the unfinish'd tale;
And when 'twas o'er, you would begin again,
And we again would listen with delight,
With fresh delight, as if we had not heard it!
Does Rivers less deserve, or you less love?

Or. Have I not lov'd him? was my friendship cold?
When any prais'd his glories in the field,
My raptur'd heart has bounded at the tale.
Me though I grew illustrious from his glory,
And rich from his renown: to hear him prais'd,
More proud than if I had achiev'd his deeds,
And reap'd myself the harvest of his fame.
How have I trembled for a life so dear,
When his too ardent soul, despising caution,
Has plung'd him in the foremost ranks of war,
As if in love with danger.

Jul. Valiant Rivers!
How does thy greatness justify my love!

Em. Spoke like my honest cousin. Then, Orlando,
Since such the love you bear your noble friend,
How will your heart sustain the mighty joy
The news I tell will give you? Yes, Orlando,
Restrain the transports of your grateful friendship,
And hear, with moderation, hear me tell you
That Rivers will return——

Or. How? when?

Em. This day.

Or. Impossible!

Ber. Then all my schemes are air.[Aside.

Em. To-day I shall embrace my valiant brother!

Jul. You droop, my Lord: did you not hear her right?
She told you that your Rivers would return,
Would come to crown your friendship and our hopes.

Or. He is most welcome! Is he not my friend?
You say my Rivers comes.—Thy arm, good Bertrand.

Ber. Joy to us all! joy to the Count Orlando!
Weak man, take care. [Aside to Orlando.

Em. My Lord! you are not well.

Ber. Surprise and joy oppress him: I myself
Partake his transports. Rouse, my Lord, for shame.

Em. How is it with you now?

Or. Quite well—'tis past.

Ber. The wonder's past, and nought but joy remains.

Guild. He's come! he's here! I have embrac'd my warrior;
Now take me, heaven; I have liv'd long enough.

Jul. My Lord! my Rivers!

Riv. 'Tis my Julia's self!
My life!

Jul. My hero! Do I then behold thee?

Riv. Oh, my full heart! expect not words, my Julia!

Em. Rivers!

Riv. My sister! what an hour is this!
My own Orlando too!

Or. My noble friend!

Riv. This is such prodigality of bliss,
I scarce can think it real. Honest Bertrand,
Your hand; yours, my Orlando; yours, my father;
And, as a hand, I have a heart for all;
Love has enlarg'd it; from excess of love
I am become more capable of friendship.
My dearest Julia!

Guild. She is thine, my son;
Thou hast deserv'd her nobly; thou hast won her,
Fulfill'd the terms——

Riv. Therefore I dare not ask her;
I would not claim my Julia as a debt,
But take her as a gift, and, oh, I swear
It is the dearest, richest, choicest gift.
The bounty of indulgent heaven could grant.

Jul. Spare me, my Lord.—As yet I scarce have seen you.
Confusion stops my tongue—yet I will own,
If there be truth or faith in woman's vows,
Then you have still been present to this heart,
And not a thought has wandered from its duty.

Riv. (looking after Julia.) Oh, generous Julia!

Or. (aside to Bertrand.)
Mark how much she loves him!

Ber. (aside to Orlando.)
Mere words, which the fond sex have always ready.

Riv. Forgive me, good Orlando, best of friends!
How my soul joys to meet thee on this shore!
Thus to embrace thee in my native England!

Guild. England! the land of worth, the soil of heroes,
Where great Elizabeth the sceptre sways,
O'er a free, glorious, rich, and happy people!
Philosophy, not cloister'd up in schools,
The speculative dream of idle monks,
Attir'd in attic robe, here roams at large;
Wisdom is wealth, and science is renown.
Here sacred laws protect the meanest subject;
The bread that toil procures fair freedom sweetens;
And every peasant eats his homely meal,
Content and free, lord of his small domain.

Riv. Past are those Gothic days, and, thanks to heaven,
They are for ever pass'd, when English subjects
Were born the vassals of some tyrant lord!
When free-soul'd men were basely handed down
To the next heir, transmitted with their lands,
The shameful legacy from sire to son!

Guild. But while thy generous soul, my noble boy,
Justly abhors oppression, yet revere
The plain stern virtues of our rough forefathers:
O never may the gallant sons of England
Lose their plain, manly, generous character;
Forego the glorious charter nature gave them,—
Beyond what kings can give, or laws bestow,—
Their candour, courage, constancy, and truth!

Or. Stay, Bertrand, stay—Oh, pity my distraction!
This heart was never made to hide its feelings;
I had near betray'd myself.

Ber. I trembled for you:
Remember that the eye of love is piercing,
And Emmelina mark'd you.

Or. 'Tis too much!
My artless nature cannot bear disguise.
Think what I felt when unsuspecting Rivers
Press'd me with gen'rous rapture to his bosom,
Profess'd an honest joy, and call'd me friend!
I felt myself a traitor: yet I swear,
Yes, by that Power who sees the thoughts of men,
I swear, I love the gallant Rivers more
Than light or life! I love, but yet I fear, him:
I shrunk before the lustre of his virtue——
I felt as I had wrong'd him—felt abash'd.
I cannot bear this conflict in my soul,
And therefore have resolv'd——

Ber. On what?

Or. To fly.

Ber. To fly from Julia?

Or. Yes, to fly from all,
From every thing I love; to fly from Rivers,
From Emmelina, from myself, from thee:
From Julia? no—that were impossible,
For I shall bear her image in my soul;
It is a part of me, the dearest part;
So closely interwoven with my being,
That I can never lose the dear remembrance,
'Till I am robb'd of life and her together.

Ber. 'Tis cowardice to fly.

Or. 'Tis death to stay.

Ber. Where would you go?—How lost in thought
he stands! [Aside.
A vulgar villain now would use persuasion,
And by his very earnestness betray
The thing he meant to hide: I'll coolly wait,
Till the occasion shows me how to act;
Then turn it to my purpose.—Ho! Orlando!
Where would you go?

Or. To solitude, to hopeless banishment!
Yes, I will shroud my youth in those dark cells
Where Disappointment steals Devotion's name,
To cheat the wretched votary into ruin;
There will I live in love with misery:
Ne'er shall the sight of mirth profane my grief;
The sound of joy shall never charm my ear,
Nor music reach it, save when the slow bell
Wakes the dull brotherhood to lifeless prayer.
Then, when the slow-retreating world recedes,
When warm desires are cold, and passion dead,
And all things but my Julia are forgotten,
One thought of her shall fire my languid soul,
Chase the faint orison, and feed despair.

Ber. What! with monastic, lazy drones retire,
And chant cold hymns with holy hypocrites?
First perish all the sex! Forbid it, manhood!
Where is your nobler self? For shame, Orlando;
Renounce this superstitious, whining weakness,
Or I shall blush to think I call'd you friend.

Or. What can I do?

Ber. (after a pause.) Beg she'll defer the marriage
But for one single day; do this, and leave
The rest to me: she shall be thine.

Or. How say'st thou?
What, wrong her virtue?

Ber. Still this cant of virtue!
This pomp of words, this phrase without a meaning!
I grant that honour's something, manly honour;
I'd fight, I'd burn, I'd bleed, I'd die for honour:
But what's this virtue?

Or. Ask you what it is?
Why 'tis what libertines themselves adore;
'Tis that which wakens love and kindles rapture
Beyond the rosy lip or starry eye.
Virtue! 'tis that which gives a secret force
To common charms; but to true loveliness
Lends colouring celestial. Such its power,
That she who ministers to guilty pleasures,
Assumes its semblance when she most would please.
Virtue! 'tis that ethereal energy
Which gives to body spirit, soul to beauty.

Ber. Curse on his principles! Yet I shall shake them;
Yes, I will bend his spirit to my will,
Now while 'tis warm with passion, and will take
Whatever mould my forming hand will give it.
'Tis worthy of my genius! Then I love
This Emmelina—true she loves not me—
But should young Rivers die, his father's lands
Would all be mine.—Is Rivers then immortal?
Come—Guildford's lands, and his proud daughter's hand
Are worth some thought.—Aid me, ye spurs to genius!
Love, mischief, poverty, revenge, and envy!

Em. Yet do not blame Orlando, good my brother;
He's still the same, that brave frank heart you lov'd;
Only his temper's chang'd, he is grown sad;
But that's no fault, I only am to blame;
Fond foolish heart, to give itself away
To one who gave me nothing in return!

Riv. How's this? my father said Orlando lov'd thee.

Em. Indeed I thought so—he was kinder once;
Nay still he loves, or my poor heart deceives me.

Riv. If he has wrong'd thee—yet I know he could not;
His gallant soul is all made up of virtues,
And I would rather doubt myself than him.
Yet tell me all the story of your loves,
And let a brother's fondness soothe thy cares.

Em. When to this castle first Orlando came,
A welcome guest to all, to me most welcome;
Yes, spite of maiden shame and burning blushes,
Let me confess he was most welcome to me.
At first my foolish heart so much deceiv'd me,
I thought I lov'd him for my brother's sake;
But when I closely search'd this bosom traitor,
I found, alas! I lov'd him for his own.

Riv. Blush not to own it; 'twas a well-plac'd flame!
I glory in the merit of my friend,
And love my sister more for loving him.

Em. He talk'd of you; I listen'd with delight,
And fancied 'twas the subject only charm'd me;
But when Orlando chose another theme,
Forgive me, Rivers, but I listen'd still
With undiminish'd joy—he talk'd of love,
Nor was that theme less grateful than the former.
I seem'd the very idol of his soul;
Rivers, he said, would thank me for the friendship
I bore to his Orlando; I believ'd him.
Julia was absent then—but what of Julia?

Riv. Aye, what of her, indeed? why nam'd you Julia?
You could not surely think?—no, that were wild.
Why did you mention Julia?

Em. (confusedly.) Nay, 'twas nothing,
'Twas accident, nor had my words a meaning;
If I did name her—'twas to note the time——
To mark the period of Orlando's coldness——
The circumstance was casual, and but meant
To date the change; it aim'd at nothing further.

Riv. (agitated.)
'Tis very like—no more—I'm satisfied——
You talk as I had doubts: what doubts have I?
Why do you labour to destroy suspicions
Which never had a birth? Is she not mine?
Mine by the fondest ties of dear affection?——
But did Orlando change at her return?
Did he grow cold? It could not be for that;
You may mistake.—And yet you said 'twas then;
Was it precisely then—I only ask
For the fond love I bear my dearest sister.

Em. 'Twas as I said.

Riv. (recovering himself.)
He loves thee, Emmelina:
These starts of passion, this unquiet temper,
Betray how much he loves thee: yes, my sister,
He fears to lose thee, fears his father's will
May dash his rising hopes, nor give thee to him.

Em. Oh, flatterer! thus to soothe my easy nature
With tales of possible, unlikely bliss!
Because it may be true, my credulous heart
Whispers it is, and fondly loves to cherish
The feeble glimmering of a sickly hope.

Riv. This precious moment, worth a tedious age
Of vulgar time, I've stol'n from love and Julia;
She waits my coming, and a longer stay
Were treason to her beauty and my love.
Doubts vanish, fears recede, and fondness triumphs.

Em. Why do my feet unbidden seek this grove?
Why do I trace his steps? I thought him here;
This is his hour of walking, and these shades
His daily haunt: oft have they heard his vows:
Ah! fatal vows, which stole my peace away!
But now he shuns my presence: yet who knows,
He may not be ungrateful, but unhappy!
Yes he will come to clear his past offences,
With such prevailing eloquence will plead,
So mourn his former faults, so blame his coldness,
And by ten thousand graceful ways repair them,
That I shall think I never was offended.
He comes, and every doubt's at once dispell'd:
'Twas fancy all; he never meant to wrong me.

Or. Why, at this hour of universal joy,
When every heart beats high with grateful rapture,
And pleasure dances her enchanting round,
O tell me why, at this auspicious hour,
You quit the joyful circle of your friends,
Rob social pleasure of its sweetest charm,
And leave a void e'en in the happiest hearts,
An aching void which only you can fill?
Why do you seek these unfrequented shades?
Why court these gloomy haunts unfit for beauty;
But made for meditation and misfortune?

Em. I might retort the charge, my lord Orlando!
I might enquire how the lov'd friend of Rivers,
Whom he has held deep-rooted in his heart,
Beyond a brother's dearness, sav'd his life,
And cherish'd it, when sav'd, beyond his own;——
I might enquire, why, when this Rivers comes,
After long tedious months of expectation,
Alive, victorious, and as firm in friendship
As fondness could have wish'd or fancy feign'd;
I might enquire why thus Orlando shuns him——
Why thus he courts this melancholy gloom,
As if he were at variance with delight,
And scorn'd to mingle in the general joy?

Or. Oh, my fair monitress! I have deserv'd
Your gentle censure. Henceforth I'll be gay.

Em. Julia complains, too, of you.

Or. Ah! does Julia?
If Julia chides me, I have err'd indeed;
For harshness is a stranger to her nature.
But why does she complain? O tell me wherefore?
That I may soon repair the unwilling crime,
And prove my heart at least ne'er meant to wrong her.

Em. Why so alarm'd?

Or. Alarm'd!

Em. Indeed you seem'd so.

Or. Sure you mistake. Alarm'd! oh, no, I was not;
There was no cause—I could not be alarm'd
Upon so slight a ground. Something you said,
But what I know not, of your friend.

Em. Of Julia?

Or. That Julia was displeas'd——was it not so?
'Twas that, or something like it.

Em. She complains
That you avoid her.

Or. How! that I avoid her?
Did Julia say so? ah! you have forgot—
It could not be.

Em. Why are you terrified?

Or. No,
Not terrified—I am not—but were those
Her very words? you might mistake her meaning;
Did Julia say Orlando shunn'd her presence?
Oh! did she, could she say so?

Em. If she did,
Why this disorder? there's no cause.

Em. Orlando's voice!
Methought he talk'd of love—nay, do not mock me;
My heart is but a weak, a very weak one!
I am not well—perhaps I've been to blame.
Spare my distress: the error has been mine.

Or. So then, all's over; I've betray'd my secret,
And stuck a poison'd dagger in her heart,
Her innocent heart. Why, what a wretch am I!
Ruin approaches;—shall I tamely meet it,
And dally with destruction till it blast me?
No, I will fly thee, Julia, fly for ever.
Ah, fly! what then becomes of Emmelina?
Shall I abandon her? it must be so;
Better escape with this poor wreck of honour,
Than hazard all by staying—Rivers here?

Riv. The same. My other self! My own Orlando!
I came to seek thee; 'twas in thy kind bosom
My suffering soul repos'd its secret cares,
When doubts and difficulties stood before me;
And now, now, when my prosperous fortune shines,
And gilds the smiling hour with her bright beams,
Shall I become a niggard of my bliss,
Defraud thee of thy portion of my joys,
And rob thee of thy well-earn'd claim to share them?

Or. That I have ever lov'd thee, witness Heaven!
That I have thought thy friendship the best blessing
That mark'd the fortune of my happier days,
I here attest the sovereign Judge of hearts!
Then think, O think, what anguish I endure,
When I declare, in bitterness of spirit,
That we must part——

Riv. What does Orlando mean?

Or. That I must leave thee, Rivers; must renounce
Thy lov'd society.

Riv. Thou hast been injur'd;
Thy merit has been slighted; sure my father,
Who knew how dear I held thee, would not wrong thee.

Or. He is all goodness; no—there is a cause——
Seek not to know it.

Riv. Now, by holy friendship!
I swear thou shalt not leave me; what! just now,
When I have safely pass'd so many perils,
Escap'd so many deaths, return'd once more
To the kind arms of long-desiring friendship;
Just now, when I expected such a welcome,
As happy souls in Paradise bestow
Upon a new inhabitant, who comes
To taste their blessedness, you coldly tell me
You will depart; it must not be, Orlando.

Or. It must, it must.

Riv. Ah, must! then tell me wherefore?

Or. I would not dim thy dawn of happiness,
Nor shade the brighter beams of thy good fortune,
With the dark sullen cloud that hangs o'er mine.

Riv. Is this the heart of him I call'd my friend,
Full of the graceful weakness of affection?
How have I known it bend at my request!
How lose the power of obstinate resistance,
Because his friend entreated! This Orlando!
How is he chang'd!

Or. Alas, how chang'd indeed!
How dead to every relish of delight!
How chang'd in all but in his love for thee!
Yet think not that my nature is grown harder,
That I have lost that ductile, yielding heart;
Rivers, I have not—oh! 'tis still too soft;
E'en now it melts, it bleeds in tenderness—
Farewell!—I dare not trust myself—farewell!

Riv. Then thou resolv'st to go?

Or. This very day.

Riv. What do I hear? To-day! It must not be:
This is the day that makes my Julia mine.

Or. Wed her to-day?

Riv. This day unites me to her;
Then stay at least till thou behold'st her mine.

Or. Impossible! another day were ruin.

Riv. Then let me fly to Julia, and conjure her
To bless me with her hand this hour—this moment.

Or. Oh, no, no, no.

Riv. I will: in such a cause
Surely she will forego the rigid forms
Of cold decorum; then, my best Orlando!
I shall receive my Julia from thy hand;
The blessing will be doubled! I shall owe
The precious gift of love to sacred friendship!

Or. Canst thou bear this, my heart?

Riv. Then, my Orlando,
Since thy unkind reserve denies my heart
Its partnership in this thy hoard of sorrows,
I will not press to know it: thou shalt go
Soon as the holy priest has made us one;
For, oh! 'twill soothe thee in the hour of parting,
To know I'm in possession of my love,
To think I'm blest with Julia, to reflect
Thou gav'st her to my arms, my bride! my wife!

Or. Ah! my brain turns!

Riv. 'Tis as I thought; I'll try him. [Aside.
Now answer me, Orlando, and with truth;
Hide nothing from thy friend—dost thou not love?

Or. Ha! how? I am betray'd! he reads my heart.

Riv. Hast thou, with all that tenderness of soul,
From love's infection kept thy yielding heart?
Say, could'st thou bask in all the blaze of beauty,
And never feel its warmth?——Impossible!
Oh! I shall probe thy soul till thou confess
The conquering fair one's name—but why confess?
Come, come, I know full well—

Or. Ha! dost thou know?
And knowing, dost thou suffer me to live?
And dost thou know my guilt, and call me friend?
He mocks but to destroy me!

Riv. Come, no more;
Love is a proud, an arbitrary god,
And will not choose as rigid fathers bid;
I know that thine has destin'd for thy bride
A Tuscan maid; but hearts disdain all force.

Or. How's this? what! dost thou justify my passion?

Riv. Applaud it—glory in it—will assist it.
She is so fair, so worthy to be lov'd,
That I should be thy rival, were not she
My sister.

Or. How!

Riv. She is another Julia.

Or. I stood upon a fearful precipice—
I'm giddy still—oh, yes! I understand thee—
Thy beauteous sister! what a wretch I've been!
Oh, Rivers! too much softness has undone me.
Yet I will never wrong the maid I love,
Nor injure thee; first, let Orlando perish!

Riv. Be more explicit.

Or. For the present spare me.
Think not too hardly of me, noble Rivers!
I am a man, and full of human frailties;
But hate like hell the crime which tempts me on.
When I am ready to depart, I'll see thee,
Clear all my long accounts of love and honour,
Remove thy doubts, embrace thee, and expire.

Riv. It must be so—to what excess he loves her!
Yet wherefore not demand her? for his birth
May claim alliance with the proudest fortune.
Sure there's some hidden cause—perhaps—ah, no!
Turn from that thought, my soul! 'twas vile suspicion;
And I could hate the heart which but conceiv'd it.
'Tis true their faith is different—then his father,
Austere and rigid, dooms him to another.
That must not be—these bars shall be remov'd;
I'll serve him with my life, nor taste of bliss,
'Till I have sought to bless the friend I love.

Jul. Methought I heard the cry of one in pain;
From hence it came; ah, me! my lord Orlando!
What means that sigh? that agonising voice?
Those groans which rend your heart? those frantic looks?
Indeed I'm terrified. What would you do?

Or. (furiously.) Die!

Jul. Talk you of death? renounce the fatal thought;
Live for my sake, Orlando.

Or. For thy sake?
That were indeed a cause to live for ages,
Would nature but extend the narrow limits
Of human life so far.

Jul. And for the sake
Of Rivers; live for both; he sends me here
To beg you would delay your purpos'd parting;
His happiness, he swears, if you are absent
Will be but half complete.

Or. Is it to-night?
This marriage, Julia, did you say to-night?

Jul. It is, and yet you leave us.

Or. No——I'll stay,
Since you command, stay and expire before you.

Jul. What mean you?

Or. That I'll perish at the feet
Of——Rivers.

Jul. Tell your sorrows to my lord;
Upon his faithful breast repose the weight
That presses you to earth.

Or. Tell him? Tell Rivers?
Is he not yours? Does not the priest now wait
To make you one? Then do not mock me thus:
What leisure can a happy bridegroom find
To think upon so lost a wretch as I am?
You hate me, Julia.

Jul. Hate you? how you wrong me!
Live to partake our joy.

Or. Hope you for joy?

Jul. Have I not cause? Am I not lov'd by Rivers?
Rivers, the best, the bravest of his sex!
Whose valour fabled heroes ne'er surpass'd,
Whose virtues teach the young and charm the old;
Whose graces are the wonder of our sex,
And envy of his own!

Or. Enough! enough!
O spare this prodigality of praise.
But, Julia, if you would not here behold me
Stretch'd at your feet a lifeless bloody corpse,
Promise what I shall now request.

Jul. What is it?

Or. That till to-morrow's sun, I ask no longer,
You will defer this marriage.

Jul. Ah! defer it?
Impossible; what would my Rivers think?

Or. No matter what; 'tis for his sake I ask it:
His peace, his happiness, perhaps his life
Depends on what I ask.

Jul. His life? the life of Rivers?
Some dreadful thought seems lab'ring in your breast;
Explain this horrid mystery.

Or. I dare not.
If you comply, before to-morrow's dawn
All will be well, the danger past; then finish
These—happy nuptials; but if you refuse,
Tremble for him you love; the altar's self
Will be no safeguard from a madman's rage.

Or. Dearer than life I love him—ask no more,
But promise, in the awful face of Heaven,
To do what I request—and promise, further,
Not to disclose the cause.

Jul. Oh, save him! save him!

Or. 'Tis to preserve him that I ask it: promise,
Or see me fall before you.

Or. Not for worlds.
If you have mercy in your nature, Julia,
Retire. Oh, leave me quickly to myself;
Do not expose me to the strong temptation
Which now assaults me.—Yet you are not gone.

Jul. Be more compos'd; I leave you with regret.
(As she goes out.) His noble mind is shaken from its seat!
What may these transports mean? Heav'n guard my Rivers!

Ber. Why, this is well; this has a face; she weeps,
He seems disordered.—Now to learn the cause,
And then make use of what I hear by chance,
As of a thing I knew. [He listens.

Or. (after a pause.) And is she gone?
Her parting words shot fire into my soul;
Did she not say she left me with regret?
Her look was tender, and the starting tear
Fill'd her bright eye; she left me with regret—
She own'd it too.

Ber. 'Twill do.
(Comes forward.) What have you done?
The charming Julia is dissolv'd in woe,
Her radiant eyes are quench'd in floods of tears;
For you they fall; her blushes have confess'd it.

Or. For me? what say'st thou? Julia weep for me!
Yet she is gentle, and she would have wept
For thee; for any who but seem'd unhappy.

Ber. Ungrateful!

Or. How?

Ber. Not by her tears, I judge,
But by her words not meant for me to hear.

Or. What did she say? What didst thou hear,
good Bertrand?
Speak—I'm on fire.

Ber. It is not safe to tell you.
Farewell! I would not injure Rivers.

Or. Stay,
Or tell me all, or I renounce thy friendship.

Ber. That threat unlocks my tongue; I must not lose thee.
Sweet Julia wept, clasp'd her fair hands, and cried,
Why was I left a legacy to Rivers,
Robb'd of the power of choice? Seeing me she started,
Would have recall'd her words, blush'd, and retir'd.

Or. No more; thou shalt not tempt me to my ruin;
Deny what thou hast said, deny it quickly,
Ere I am quite undone; for, oh! I feel
Retreating virtue touches its last post,
And my lost soul now verges on destruction.
—Bertrand, she promis'd to defer the marriage.

Or. No; and even if she did,
I have no hope.

Ber. You are too scrupulous.
Be bold and be successful; sure of this,
There is no crime a woman sooner pardons
Than that of which her beauty is the cause.

Or. Shall I defraud my friend? he bled to gain her!
What! rob the dear preserver of my life
Of all that makes the happiness of his?
And yet her beauty might excuse a falsehood;
Nay, almost sanctify a perjury.
Perdition's in that thought—'twas born in hell.
My soul is up in arms, my reason's lost,
And love, and rage, and jealousy, and honour,
Pull my divided heart, and tear my soul.

Ber. Rave on, and beat thy wings; poor bird! thou'rt lim'd,
And vain will be thy struggles to get loose.
—How much your very honest men lack prudence!
Though all the nobler virtues fill one scale,
Yet place but Indiscretion in the other;
In worldly business, and the ways of men,
That single folly weighs the balance down,
While all th' ascending virtues kick the beam.
Here's this Orlando now, of rarest parts,
Honest, heroic, generous, frank, and kind
As inexperience of the world can make him;
Yet shall this single weakness, this imprudence,
Pull down unheard-of plagues upon his head,
And snare his heedless soul beyond redemption:
While dull unfeeling hearts, and frozen spirits,
Sordidly safe, secure, because untempted,
Look up and wonder at the generous crime
They wanted wit to frame, and souls to dare.