_Riv._ 'Tis my Julia's self! My life! _Jul._ My hero! Do I then behold thee? _Riv._ Oh, my full heart! expect not words, my Julia! _Em._ Rivers! _Riv._ My sister! what an hour is this! My own Orlando too! _Or._ My noble friend! _Riv._ This is such prodigality of bliss, I scarce can think it real. Honest Bertrand, Your hand; yours, my Orlando; yours, my father; And, as a hand, I have a heart for all; Love has enlarg'd it; from excess of love I am become more capable of friendship. My dearest Julia! _Guild._ She is thine, my son; Thou hast deserv'd her nobly; thou hast won her, Fulfill'd the terms---- _Riv._ Therefore I dare not ask her; I would not claim my Julia as a debt, But take her as a gift, and, oh, I swear It is the dearest, richest, choicest gift. The bounty of indulgent heaven could grant. [GUILDFORD _joins their hands_. _Jul._ Spare me, my Lord.--As yet I scarce have seen you. Confusion stops my tongue--yet I will own, If there be truth or faith in woman's vows, Then you have still been present to this heart, And not a thought has wandered from its duty. [_Exeunt_ JULIA _and_ EMMELINA. _Riv._ (_looking after_ JULIA.) Oh, generous Julia! _Or._ (_aside to_ BERTRAND.) Mark how much she loves him! _Ber._ (_aside to_ ORLANDO.) Mere words, which the fond sex have always ready. _Riv._ Forgive me, good Orlando, best of friends! How my soul joys to meet thee on this shore! Thus to embrace thee in my native England! _Guild._ England! the land of worth, the soil of heroes, Where great Elizabeth the sceptre sways, O'er a free, glorious, rich, and happy people! Philosophy, not cloister'd up in schools, The speculative dream of idle monks, Attir'd in attic robe, here roams at large; Wisdom is wealth, and science is renown. Here sacred laws protect the meanest subject; The bread that toil procures fair freedom sweetens; And every peasant eats his homely meal, Content and free, lord of his small domain. _Riv._ Past are those Gothic days, and, thanks to heaven, They are for ever pass'd, when English subjects Were born the vassals of some tyrant lord! When free-soul'd men were basely handed down To the next heir, transmitted with their lands, The shameful legacy from sire to son! _Guild._ But while thy generous soul, my noble boy, Justly abhors oppression, yet revere The plain stern virtues of our rough forefathers: O never may the gallant sons of England Lose their plain, manly, generous character; Forego the glorious charter nature gave them,-- Beyond what kings can give, or laws bestow,-- Their candour, courage, constancy, and truth! [_Exeunt_ GUILDFORD _and_ RIVERS. _Or._ Stay, Bertrand, stay--Oh, pity my distraction! This heart was never made to hide its feelings; I had near betray'd myself.