_Guild._ (_embraces her._) My glorious child! now thou art mine, indeed! Forgive me if I thought thee fond and weak. I have a Roman matron for my daughter, And not a feeble girl. And yet I fear, For, oh! I know thy tenderness of soul; I fear this silent anguish but portends Some dread convulsion soon to burst in horrors. _Em._ I will not shame thy blood; and yet, my father, Methinks thy daughter should not be refus'd! Refus'd? It has a harsh, ungrateful sound; Thou shouldst have found a softer term of scorn. And have I then been held so cheap? Refus'd? Been treated like the light ones of my sex, Held up to sale? been offer'd, and refus'd? _Guild._ Long have I known thy love; I thought it mutual: I met him--talk'd of marriage---- _Em._ Ah! no more: I am rejected;--does not that suffice? Excuse my pride the mortifying tale; Spare me particulars of how and when, And do not parcel out thy daughter's shame. No flowers of rhetoric can change the fact, No arts of speech can varnish o'er my shame: Orlando has refus'd me! _Guild._ Villain! villain! He shall repent this outrage. _Em._ Think no more on't: I'll teach thee how to bear it; I'll grow proud, As gentle spirits still are apt to do When cruel slight or killing scorn assails them. Come, virgin dignity; come, female pride; Come, wounded modesty; come, slighted love; Come, conscious worth; come, too, O black despair! Support me, arm me, fill me with my wrongs! Sustain this feeble spirit!--Yes, my father, But for thy share in this sad tale of shame, I think I could have borne it. _Guild._ Thou hast a brother; He shall assert thy cause. _Em._ First strike me dead! No, in the wild distraction of my spirit, In this dread conflict of my breaking heart, Hear my fond pleading--save me from that curse; Thus I adjure thee by the dearest ties [_Kneels._ Which link society; by the sweet names Of parent and of child; by all the joys These tender claims have yielded, I adjure thee Breathe not this fatal secret to my brother; Let him not know his sister was refus'd! Spare me that exquisite, that perfect ruin! Conceive the mighty woe I cannot speak, And tremble to become a childless father. [_Exit_ EMMELINA. _Guild._ What art thou, Life? thou lying vanity! Thou promiser, who never meanst to pay! This beating storm will crush my feeble age! Yet let me not complain; I have a son, Just such a son as Heaven in mercy gives, When it would bless supremely: he is happy; His ardent wishes will this day be crown'd; He weds the maid he loves: in him, at least, My soul will yet taste comfort.--See; he's here; He seems disorder'd. _Enter_ RIVERS (_not seeing_ GUILDFORD).