_Bur._ But why should stern reproach her angry brow Let fall on me? Am I alone the cause That gives this working humour strength? Do I Instruct the public voice to warp his actions? Justice, untaught, shall poise the impartial scales, And every curious eye may mark the beam. _South._ The specious shield, which private malice bears, Is ever blazon'd with some public good; Behind that artful fence, skulk low, conceal'd, The bloody purpose, and the poison'd shaft; Ambition there, and envy, nestle close; From whence they take their fatal aim unseen; And honest merit is their destined mark. _Bur._ My country's welfare, and my queen's command, Have ever been my guiding stars through life, My sure direction still.--To these I now Appeal;--from these, no doubt, this lord's misconduct Hath widely stray'd; and reason, not reviling, Must now befriend his cause. _South._ How ill had Providence Disposed the suffering world's oppressed affairs, Had sacred right's eternal rule been left To crafty politicians' partial sway! Then power and pride would stretch the enormous grasp, And call their arbitrary portion, justice: Ambition's arm, by avarice urged, would pluck The core of honesty from virtue's heart, And plant deceit and rancour in its stead: Falsehood would trample then on truth and honour, And envy poison sweet benevolence. Oh, 'tis a goodly group of attributes, And well befits some statesman's righteous rule! Out, out upon such bloody doings! The term of being is not worth the sin; No human bosom can endure its dart. Then put this cruel purpose from thee far, Nor let the blood of Essex whelm thy soul. _Bur._ 'Tis well, my lord! your words no comment need; No doubt, they've well explained your honest meaning; 'Tis clear and full. To parts, like yours, discretion Would be a clog, and caution but incumbrance. Yet mark me well, my lord; the clinging ivy With the oak may rise, but with it too must fall. _South._ Thy empty threats, ambitious man, hurt not The breast of truth. Fair innocence, and faith, Those strangers to thy practised heart, shall shield My honour, and preserve my friend. In vain, Thy malice, with unequal arm, shall strive To tear the applauded wreath from Essex' brow; His honest laurel, held aloft by fame, Above thy blasting reach, shall safely flourish, And bloom immortal to the latest times; Whilst thou, amidst thy tangling snares involved, Shalt sink confounded, and unpitied fall. _Bur._ Rail on, proud lord, and give thy choler vent: It wastes itself in vain; the queen shall judge Between us in this warm debate. To her I now repair: and, in her royal presence, You may approve your innocence and faith. Perhaps you'll meet me there. Till then, farewell. [_Exit._