_Ribau._ Is then the path of duty so precise, That 'twill not for a little deviate? Sweet, let it wind, and bend to recollection. Think on our oaths; yes, lady, they are mutual:-- You said you loved; I treasured the confession, As misers hoard their gold: nay, 'twas my all.-- Think not I chatter in the idle school Of whining coxcombs, where despair and death Are words of course; I swell not fancied ills With windy eloquence: no, trust me, Julia, I speak in honest, simple suffering: And disappointment, in my life's best hope, So feeds upon my life, and wears me inward, That I am nearly spirit-broken. _Julia._ Why, why this, my lord? You urge me past a maiden's modesty. What should I say?--In nature's course, my lord, The parent sits at helm, in grey authority, And pilots the child's action: for my father, You know what humour sways him. _Ribau._ Yes, court policy; Time-serving zeal: tame, passive, blind, obedience To the stern will of power; which doth differ As wide from true, impulsive loyalty, As puppet work from nature. O, I would The time were come!--our enemy, the English, Bid fairest first to show a bright example; When, 'twixt the ruler and the ruled, affection Shall be reciprocal: when majesty Shall gather strength from mildness; and the subject Shall look with duteous love upon his sovereign, As the child eyes its father. Now, by Heaven! Old John de Vienne is turn'd a temporiser; Making his daughter the poor topmost round Of his vile ladder to preferment. 'Sdeath! And you to suffer this! O, fie, fie, Julia! 'Twould show more noble in you to lay bare Your mind's inconstancy, than thus to keep The semblance of a passion; meanly veiling Your broken faith with the excuse of duty. Out on't! 'tis shallow--you ne'er loved. _Julia._ My lord, my cup of sorrow was brimfull; and you, I look'd not for it, have thrown in a drop, Which makes it overflow. No more of that: You have reviled my father: me, too, Ribaumont; Heaven knows, I little merit it!--My lord, Upon this theme we must not meet again.-- Farewell! and do not, do not think unkindly On her, you, once, did call your Julia. If it will sooth your anguish, Ribaumont, To find a fellowship in grief, why think That there is one, while struggling for her duty, Sheds many a tear in private.--Heaven be with you! [_Exit._ _Ribau._ Stay, stay, and listen to me. Gone! and thus too! And have I lost thee--and for ever, Julia? Now do I look on life as the worn mariner, Stretching his eyes o'er seas immeasurable, And all is drear and comfortless. Henceforward, My years will be one void; day roll on day, In sameness infinite, without a hope To chequer the sad prospect. O! if death Came yoked with honour to me, I could, now, Embrace it with as warm and willing rapture, As mothers clasp their infants.