_Y. Book._ Good Heav'n forbid it--guard him and protect him. He faints, he's cold, he's gone; [_Running to him._ He's gone, and with his last breath called me parricide. "You've broke your father's heart!" Oh, killing sound! I'm all contagion; to pity me is death: My griefs to all are mortal but myself. "You've broke your father's heart!" If I did so, Why thus serene in death, thou smiling clay? Why that calm aspect to thy murderer? Oh, big unutterable grief----merciful Heaven! I don't deserve this ease of tears to melt With penitence--Oh, sweet, sweet remorse; Now all my powers give way To my just sorrow, for the best of fathers. [_Aloud._ Thou venerable fountain of my life, Why don't I also die, derived from thee? Sure you are not gone--Is the way out of life Thus easy, which you so much feared in me? [_Takes him by the hand._ Why stay I after? But I deserve to stay, To feel the quick remembrance of my follies. Yet if my sighs, my tears, my anguish can atone---- _Re-enter_ FREDERICK, LOVEMORE, LATINE, GAOLER, VICTORIA, _and_ PENELOPE. _Fred._ What is the matter? What---- _Y. Book._ Behold this sight! I am the guilty wretch-- _Fred._ Keep aside a little, sir, he only swoons, I hope. I think he breathes--yes, he returns. You must compose yourself. _Lat._ Poor Bookwit! how utterly he seems distressed! _O. Book._ I will be calm--resign to Heaven--and hear you patiently. _Fred._ You, sir, his favourite servant, pray speak honestly the truth of what you know to this learned gentleman, who is counsel in this case. _Y. Book._ Sir, he is not---- _Love._ Pray, sir, give the servant leave first. _Lat._ Know, then, I am not what I seem, but a gentleman of a plentiful fortune. I am thus dressed to carry on such gay pursuits as should offer in this town. Not to detain you, Mr. Bookwit sent me late last night with a letter to one of these ladies. Coming from thence, as I crossed, I saw Lovemore in the Garden. He stopped me, and, after some questions concerning my message to this house, to which he did not like my answers, he struck me. We fought--I left him dead upon the spot; of which this gentleman is guiltless. _O. Book._ How! was it you, then, that killed Mr. Lovemore? _Lat._ 'Twas this unhappy hand gave him his death, but so provoked-- _Y. Book._ Who could believe that any pleasing passion Could touch a breast loaded with guilt like mine? But all my mind is seized with admiration Of thy stupendous friendship. What then-- Could'st thou hold thy innocent hand up at a bar With felons, to save thy friend? How shall I chide or praise thy brave imposture? Ah, sir, believe him not! He cannot bear the loss of me whom he o'ervalues; therefore with highest gallantry he offers a benefit which 'twere the meanest baseness to receive. But death's more welcome than a life so purchased. _Lat._ We all know you can talk, and gild things as you please, but the lady's servant knows I was taken near the body when you----