_Dou._ True tenderness is less solicitous, Less prudent and more fond; the enamour'd heart, Conscious it loves, and blest in being lov'd, Reposes on the object it adores, And trusts the passion it inspires and feels.-- Thou hast not learnt how terrible it is To feed a hopeless flame.--But hear, Elwina, Thou most obdurate, hear me.-- _Elw._ Say, my lord, For your own lips shall vindicate my fame, Since at the altar I became your wife, Can malice charge me with an act, a word, I ought to blush at? Have I not still liv'd As open to the eye of observation, As fearless innocence should ever live? I call attesting angels to be witness, If in my open deed, or secret thought, My conduct, or my heart, they've aught discern'd Which did not emulate their purity. _Dou._ This vindication ere you were accus'd, This warm defence, repelling all attacks Ere they are made, and construing casual words To formal accusations, trust me, madam, Shews rather an alarm'd and vigilant spirit, For ever on the watch to guard its secret, Than the sweet calm of fearless innocence. Who talk'd of guilt? Who testified suspicion? _Elw._ Learn, sir, that virtue, while 'tis free from blame, Is modest, lowly, meek, and unassuming; Not apt, like fearful vice, to shield its weakness Beneath the studied pomp of boastful phrase Which swells to hide the poverty it shelters; But, when this virtue feels itself suspected, Insulted, set at nought, its whiteness stain'd, It then grows proud, forgets its humble worth, And rates itself above its real value. _Dou._ I did not mean to chide! but think, O think, What pangs must rend this fearful doting heart, To see you sink impatient of the grave, To feel, distracting thought! to feel you hate me! _Elw._ What if the slender thread by which I hold This poor precarious being soon must break, Is it Elwina's crime, or heaven's decree? Yet I shall meet, I trust, the king of terrors, Submissive and resign'd, without one pang, One fond regret, at leaving this gay world. _Dou._ Yes, madam, there is one, one man ador'd, For whom your sighs will heave, your tears will flow, For whom this hated world will still be dear, For whom you still would live---- _Elw._ Hold, hold, my lord, What may this mean? _Dou._ Ah! I have gone too far. What have I said?--Your father, sure, your father, The good Lord Raby, may at least expect One tender sigh. _Elw._ Alas, my lord! I thought The precious incense of a daughter's sighs Might rise to heaven, and not offend its ruler. _Dou._ 'Tis true; yet Raby is no more belov'd Since he bestow'd his daughter's hand on Douglas: That was a crime the dutiful Elwina Can never pardon; and believe me, madam, My love's so nice, so delicate my honour, I am asham'd to owe my happiness To ties which make you wretched. [_exit Douglas._