father's will,
Crown the impatient vows of my brave son,
And richly pay him for his dangers past.

Ber. Oft have I wonder'd how the gallant Rivers,
Youthful and ardent, doting to excess,
Could dare the dangers of uncertain war,
Ere marriage had confirm'd his claim to Julia.

Guild. 'Twas the condition of her father's will,
My brave old fellow-soldier, and my friend!
He wish'd to see our ancient houses join'd
By this, our children's union; but the veteran
So highly valued military prowess,
That he bequeath'd his fortunes and his daughter
To my young Rivers, on these terms alone,
That he should early gain renown in arms;
And if he from the field return'd a conqueror,
That sun which saw him come victorious home
Should witness their espousals. Yet he comes not!
The event of war is to the brave uncertain,
Nor can desert in arms ensure success.

Ber. Yet fame speaks loudly of his early valour.

Guild. Ere since th' Italian Count, the young Orlando,
My Rivers' bosom friend, has been my guest,
The glory of my son is all his theme:
Oh! he recounts his virtues with such joy,
Dwells on his merit with a zeal so warm,
As to his gen'rous heart pays back again
The praises he bestows.

Ber. Orlando's noble.
He's of a tender, brave, and gallant nature,
Of honour most romantic, with such graces
As charm all womankind.

Guild. And here comes one,
To whom the story of Orlando's praise
Sounds like sweet music.

Ber. What, your charming daughter!
Yes, I suspect she loves th' Italian Count:[Aside.
That must not be. Now to observe her closely.

Guild. Come hither, Emmelina: we were speaking
Of the young Count Orlando. What think you
Of this accomplish'd stranger?

Em. (confused.) Of Orlando?
Sir, as my father's guest, my brother's friend,
I do esteem the Count.

Guild. Nay, he has merit
Might justify thy friendship if he wanted
The claims thou mention'st; yet I mean to blame him.

Em. What has he done? How has he wrong'd my father?
For you are just, and are not angry lightly;
And he is mild, unapt to give offence,
As you to be offended.

Guild. Nay, 'tis not much:
But why does young Orlando shun my presence?
Why lose that cheerful and becoming spirit
Which lately charm'd us all? Rivers will chide us,
Should he return, and find his friend unhappy.
He is not what he was. What says my child?

Em. My lord, when first my brother's friend arriv'd——
Be still, my heart.[Aside.

Ber. She dares not use his name.
Her brother's friend![Aside.

Em. When first your noble guest
Came from that voyage, he kindly undertook
To ease our terrors for my Rivers' safety,
When we believ'd him dead; he seem'd most happy,
And shar'd the gen'ral joy his presence gave.
Of late he is less gay; my brother's absence
(Or I mistake) disturbs his friend's repose:
Nor is it strange; one mind informs them both;
Each is the very soul that warms the other,
And both are wretched, or are bless'd together.

Ber. Why trembles my fair cousin?

Em. Can I think
That my lov'd brother's life has been in danger,
Nor feel a strong emotion?

Ber. (ironically.) Generous pity!
But when that danger has so long been past,
You should forget your terrors.

Em. I shall never.
For when I think that danger sprung from friendship;
That Rivers, to preserve another's life,
Incurr'd this peril, still my wonder rises.

Ber. And why another's life? Why not Orlando's?
Such caution more betrays than honest freedom.

Guild. He's still the same, the gibing, thoughtless Bertrand,
Severe of speech, but innocent of malice.

Ber. Stay, my fair cousin! still with adverse eyes
Am I beheld? Had I Orlando's form,
I mean, were I like him, your brother's friend,
Then would your looks be turn'd thus coldly on me?

Em. But that I know your levity means nothing,
And that your heart accords not with your tongue,
This would offend me.

Ber. Come, confess the truth,
That this gay Florentine, this Tuscan rover,
Has won your easy heart, and given you his:
I know the whole; I'm of his secret council;
He has confess'd——

Em. Ha! what has he confess'd?

Ber. That you are wond'rous fair: nay, nothing further:
How disappointment fires her angry cheek![Aside.
Yourself have told the rest, your looks avow it;
Your eyes are honest, they conceal no secrets.

Em. Know, Sir, that virtue no concealment needs:
So far from dreading, she solicits notice,
And wishes every secret thought she harbours
Bare to the eye of men, as 'tis to Heav'n.

Ber. Yet mark me well: trust not Orlando's truth;
The citron groves have heard his amorous vows
Breath'd out to many a beauteous maid of Florence;
Bred in those softer climes, his roving heart
Ne'er learn'd to think fidelity a virtue:
He laughs at tales of British constancy.
But see, Orlando comes—he seeks you here.
With eyes bent downwards, folded arms, pale cheeks
Disorder'd looks, and negligent attire,
And all the careless equipage of love,
He bends this way. Why does the mounting blood
Thus crimson your fair cheek? He does not see us—
I'll venture to disturb his meditations,
And instantly return.

Em. No more; but leave me.
He's talkative but harmless, rude but honest;
Fuller of mirth than mischief.—See they meet—
This way they come: why am I thus alarm'd?
What is't to me that here Orlando comes?
Oh for a little portion of that art
Ungenerous men ascribe to our whole sex!
A little artifice were prudence now:
But I have none; my poor unpractis'd heart
Is so unknowing of dissimulation,
So little