Elw. Say, my lord, For your own lips shall vindicate my fame, Since at the altar I became your wife, Can malice charge me with an act, a word, I ought to blush at? Have I not still liv'd As open to the eye of observation, As fearless innocence should ever live? I call attesting angels to be witness, If in my open deed, or secret thought, My conduct, or my heart, they've aught discern'd Which did not emulate their purity.   Dou. This vindication ere you were accus'd, This warm defence, repelling all attacks Ere they are made, and construing casual words To formal accusations, trust me, madam, Shews rather an alarm'd and vigilant spirit, For ever on the watch to guard its secret, Than the sweet calm of fearless innocence. Who talk'd of guilt? Who testified suspicion?   Elw. Learn, sir, that virtue, while 'tis free from blame, Is modest, lowly, meek, and unassuming; Not apt, like fearful vice, to shield its weakness Beneath the studied pomp of boastful phrase Which swells to hide the poverty it shelters; But, when this virtue feels itself suspected, Insulted, set at nought, its whiteness stain'd, It then grows proud, forgets its humble worth, And rates itself above its real value.   Dou. I did not mean to chide! but think, O think, What pangs must rend this fearful doting heart, To see you sink impatient of the grave, To feel, distracting thought! to feel you hate me!   Elw. What if the slender thread by which I hold This poor precarious being soon must break, Is it Elwina's crime, or heaven's decree? Yet I shall meet, I trust, the king of terrors, Submissive and resign'd, without one pang, One fond regret, at leaving this gay world.   Dou. Yes, madam, there is one, one man ador'd, For whom your sighs will heave, your tears will flow, For whom this hated world will still be dear, For whom you still would live——   Elw. Hold, hold, my lord, What may this mean?   Dou. Ah! I have gone too far. What have I said?—Your father, sure, your father, The good Lord Raby, may at least expect One tender sigh.   Elw. Alas, my lord! I thought The precious incense of a daughter's sighs Might rise to heaven, and not offend its ruler.   Dou. 'Tis true; yet Raby is no more belov'd Since he bestow'd his daughter's hand on Douglas: That was a crime the dutiful Elwina Can never pardon; and believe me, madam, My love's so nice, so delicate my honour, I am asham'd to owe my happiness To ties which make you wretched.[exit Douglas.   Elw. Ah! how's this? Though I have ever found him fierce and rash, Full of obscure surmises and dark hints, Till now he never ventur'd to accuse me. Yet there is one, one man belov'd, ador'd, For whom your tears will flow—these were his words— And then the wretched subterfuge of, Raby— How poor th' evasion!—But my Birtha comes.   Enter Birtha.   Bir. Crossing the portico I met Lord Douglas, Disorder'd were his looks, his eyes shot fire; He call'd upon your name with such distraction, I fear'd some sudden evil had befallen you.   Elw. Not sudden: no; long has the storm been gathering, Which threatens speedily to burst in ruin On this devoted head.   Bir. I ne'er beheld Your gentle soul so ruffled, yet I've mark'd you, While others thought you happiest of the happy, Blest with whate'er the world calls great, or good, With all that nature, all that fortune gives, I've mark'd you bending with a weight of sorrow.   Elw. O I will tell thee all! thou couldst not find An hour, a moment in Elwina's life, When her full heart so long'd to ease its burthen, And pour its sorrows in thy friendly bosom: Hear then, with pity hear, my tale of woe, And, O forgive, kind nature, filial piety, If my presumptuous lips arraign a father! Yes, Birtha, that belov'd, that cruel father, Has doom'd me to a life of hopeless anguish, To die of grief ere half my days are number'd; Doom'd me to give my trembling hand to Douglas, 'Twas all I had to give—my heart was—Percy's.   Bir. What do I hear?   Elw. My misery, not my crime. Long since the battle 'twixt the rival houses Of Douglas and of Percy, for whose