_Em._ How many ways there are of being wretched! The avenues to happiness how few! When will this busy, fluttering heart be still? When will it cease to feel and beat no more? E'en now it shudders with a dire presage Of something terrible it fears to know. Ent'ring, I saw my venerable father In earnest conference with the Count Orlando; Shame and confusion fill'd Orlando's eye, While stern resentment flush'd my father's cheek. And look, he comes with terror on his brow! But, oh! he sees me, sees his child; and now The terror of his look is lost in love, In fond, paternal love. _Enter_ GUILDFORD. _Guild._ Come to my arms, And there conceal that penetrating eye, Lest it should read what I would hide for ever, Would hide from all, but most would hide from thee---- Thy father's grief, his shame, his rage, his tears. _Em._ Tears! heaven and earth! see if he does not weep! _Guild._ He who has drawn this sorrow from my eyes Shall pay me back again in tears of blood. 'Tis for thy sake I weep. _Em._ Ah, weep for me? Hear, Heaven, and judge; hear, Heaven, and punish me! If any crime of mine---- _Guild._ Thou art all innocence; Just what a parent's fondest wish would frame; No fault of thine e'er stain'd thy father's cheek; For if I blush'd, it was to hear thy virtues, And think that thou wast mine: and if I wept, It was from joy and gratitude to heaven, That made me father of a child like thee. Orlando---- _Em._ What of him? _Guild._ I cannot tell thee; An honest shame, a virtuous pride forbids. _Em._ Oh, speak! _Guild._ Canst thou not guess, and spare thy father? _Em._ 'Tis possible I can--and yet I will not: Tell me the worst while I have sense to hear. Thou wilt not speak--nay, never turn away; Dost thou not know that fear is worse than grief? There may be bounds to grief, fear knows no bounds: In grief we know the worst of what we feel, But who can tell the end of what we fear? Grief mourns some sorrow palpable and known, But fear runs wild with horrible conjecture. _Guild._ Then hear the worst, and arm thy soul to bear it. My child!--he has--Orlando has refus'd thee. _Em._ (_after a long pause._) 'Tis well--'tis very well--'tis as it should be. _Guild._ Oh, there's an eloquence in that mute woe Which mocks all language. Speak, relieve thy heart, Thy bursting heart; thy father cannot bear it. Am I a man? no more of this, fond eyes! I am grown weaker than a chidden infant, While not a sigh escapes to tell thy pain. _Em._ See, I am calm; I do not shed a tear; The warrior weeps, the woman is a hero!