THE FATAL FALSEHOOD. ACT I. SCENE--_An Apartment in Guildford Castle._ _Enter_ BERTRAND. _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! _Enter_ GUILDFORD. How fares my noble uncle? _Guild._ Honest Bertrand! I must complain we have so seldom 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.