_Or._ We crave your pardon, beauteous Emmelina, If rudely we intrude upon your thoughts; Thoughts pure as infants' dreams or angels' wishes, And gentle as the breast from which they spring. _Em._ Be still, my heart, nor let him see thy weakness. [_Aside._ We are much bound to thank you, cousin Bertrand, That since your late return the Count Orlando Appears once more among us.--Say, my lord, Why have you shunn'd your friends' society? Was it well done? My father bade me chide you; I am not made for chiding, but he bade me: He says, no more you rise at early dawn With him to chase the boar: I pleaded for you; Told him 'twas savage sport. _Or._ What was his answer? _Em._ He said 'twas sport for heroes, and made heroes; That hunting was the very school of war, Taught our brave youth to shine in nobler fields, Preserv'd 'em from the rust of dull inaction, Trained 'em for arms, and fitted them for conquest. _Or._ O, my fair advocate! scarce can I grieve To have done wrong, since my offence has gain'd So sweet a pleader. _Ber._ (_aside._) So, I like this well; Full of respect, but cold. _Em._ My Lord, your pardon; My father waits my coming: I attend him. [_Exit._ _Ber._ In truth, my Lord, you're a right happy man; Her parting look proclaims that you are bless'd; The crimson blushes on her cheek display'd A gentle strife 'twixt modesty and love: Discretion strove to dash the rising joy, But conquering love prevail'd and told the tale. My Lord, you answer not. _Or._ What shall I say? Oh, couldst thou read my heart! _Ber._ The hour is come When my impatient friendship claims that trust Which I so oft have press'd, and you have promis'd. _Or._ I cannot tell thee; 'tis a tale of guilt: How shall I speak? my resolution sickens; All virtuous men will shun me; thou wilt scorn me, And fly the foul contagion of my crime. _Ber._ My bosom is not steel'd with that harsh prudence Which would reproach thy failings; tell me all: The proudest heart loves to repose its faults Upon a breast that has itself a tincture Of human weakness: I have frailties too, Frailties that teach me how to pity thine. What! silent still? Thou lov'st my beauteous cousin! Have I not guess'd? _Or._ I own that she has charms Might warm a frozen stoic into love, Tempt hermits back again to that bad world They had renounc'd, and make religious men Forgetful of their holy vows to heaven: Yet, Bertrand--come, I'll tell thee all my weakness; Thou hast a tender, sympathising heart---- Thou art not rigid to a friend's defects. That heavenly form I view with eyes as cold As marble images of lifeless saints: I see, and know the workmanship divine; My judgment owns her exquisite perfections; But my rebellious heart denies her claim. _Ber._ What do I hear! you love her not!