_Alon._ Why didst thou tear it? _Zan._ Think of it no more. 'Twas your mistake, and groundless are your fears. _Alon._ And didst thou tremble then for my mistake? Or give the whole contents, or by the pangs That feed upon my heart, thy life's in danger. _Zan._ Is this Alonzo's language to his Zanga? Draw forth your sword, and find the secret here. For whose sake is it, think you, I conceal it? Wherefore this rage? Because I seek your peace? I have no interest in suppressing it, But what good-natur'd tenderness for you Obliges me to have. Not mine the heart That will be rent in two. Not mine the fame That will be damn'd, though all the world should know it. _Alon._ Then my worst fears are true, and life is past. _Zan._ What has the rashness of my passion utter'd? I know not what; but rage is our destruction, And all its words are wind--Yet sure, I think, I nothing own'd--but grant I did confess, What is a letter? letters may be forg'd. For heav'n's sweet sake, my lord, lift up your heart. Some foe to your repose-- _Alon._ So, heaven look on me, As I can't find the man I have offended. _Zan._ Indeed! [_aside_]--Our innocence is not our shield. They take offence, who have not been offended; They seek our ruin too, who speak us fair, And death is often ambush'd in their smiles. 'Tis certain A letter may be forg'd, and in a point Of such a dreadful consequence as this, One would rely on nought that might be false-- Think, have you any other cause to doubt her? Away, you can find none. Resume your spirit; All's well again. _Alon._ Oh that it were! _Zan._ It is; For who could credit that, which, credited, Makes hell superfluous by superior pains, Without such proofs as cannot be withstood? Has she not ever been to virtue train'd? Is not her fame as spotless as the sun, Her sex's envy, and the boast of Spain? _Alon._ O, Zanga! it is that confounds me most, That, full in opposition to appearance-- _Zan._ No more, my lord, for you condemn yourself. What is absurdity, but to believe Against appearance!--You can't yet, I find, Subdue your passion to your better sense;-- And, truth to tell, it does not much displease me. 'Tis fit our indiscretions should be check'd With some degree of pain. _Alon._ What indiscretion? _Zan._ Come, you must bear to hear your faults from me. Had you not sent don Carlos to the court The night before the battle, that foul slave, Who forg'd the senseless scroll which gives you pain, Had wanted footing for his villany. _Alon._ I sent him not. _Zan._ Not send him!--Ha!--That strikes me. I thought he came on message to the king. Is there another cause could justify His shunning danger, and the promis'd fight? But I perhaps may think too rigidly; So long an absence, and impatient love--