Grati.
What means, young Lord, that Fun'ral Garb to day?
It suits but ill the Splendor of our Court,
Which shines in all its Pomp to grace your Nuptials.

Bell.
My Lord, the Nuptial and the Fun'ral Rites
Are sometimes not so different in their Nature,
But the same Sable may befit them both.
Here 'tis not so indeed.—Howe'er, Lucilia,
I hope you'll pardon this peculiar Humour.
If the Heart's fair, no matter for the Dress.

Grati.
Come, Sir, begin the Rites.— [To the Priest.

Bell.
First, by your Leave, Sir,
I ask you, if with free and honest Soul
You give your Daughter, this fair spotless Virgin,
To be the dear Partaker of my Fortune,
The pure untainted Partner of my Breast?

Grati.
As freely, Sir, as Heaven did give her me.

Bell.
And what have I to give you back, whose Worth
Can counterpoise this rich, this precious Gift?

Byron.
Nothing, unless you render her again.

Bell.
My Lord, you learn me just Retaliation:
There, Gratiano, take her back again;
Give not this blemish'd Brillant to your Friend:
She's but the Sign and Semblance of her Honour.
Behold, how like a Virgin's are her Blushes:
O what a Lustre! what a Mask of Truth
Can artful Vice fair-robe itself withal!
Comes not that Blood as modest Evidence
To witness blameless Virtue? Would you think,
All you that gaze upon her, would you think
She's false to Honour? But 'tis true, too true;
She knows the Heat of a luxurious Bed;

Her Blush is Guiltiness, not Modesty.

Grati.
What do you mean, my Lord?

Bell.
Not to be marry'd—
Not join my Soul to an abandon'd Wanton.

Grati.
My Lord, if you yourself have wrong'd her Virtue,
And vanquish'd the Resistance of her Youth—

Bell.
I know what you would say.—No, Gratiano,
I never tempted her with Word too large,
But shew'd her, like a Brother to his Sister,
Bashful Sincerity and comely Love.

Lucil.
And seem'd I ever otherwise to you, Sir?

Bell.
You seem'd to me as Dian in her Orb,
As chaste as is the Rose ere it be blown:
But you are more intemp'rate in your Blood
Than—what I will not say.—Go, go, Lucilia.

Lucil.
Heav'ns! are you well, my Lord? Whence comes this Phrensy?

Grati.
Are these things said? or is it all a Dream?

Byron.
Yes, Sir, these things are said, and they are true.
I wish 'twere but a Dream.

Bell.
Sir, stand I here?
Is this your Brother? that the sage Lucentius?
And are our Eyes and Ears our own?—Then tell me
If that is not Lucilia, that your Daughter?

Grati.
All this is so.—But what of this, my Lord?

Bell.
Let me then move one Question to that Daughter.
What Man was he with whom, at last Night's Noon,
You talk'd so freely from your Chamber-Window?
If you have Honour left, answer to this.

Lucil.
I talk'd! talk'd with a Man! talk'd from my Window
At dead of Night!—The Charge is so confounding,
So base, so false, that I can make no Answer.

Bell.
Why then you have no Honour left, Lucilia.
I'm sorry, Sir, that you must hear this Tale:
My self, your Brother, and this good old Man
Did hear her, see her at that Time last Night,
Talk with a Pander from her Chamber-Window:
Who, like a lib'ral Villain, hath confess'd
The many vile Encounters they have had.

Byron.
Forbear, my Lord, it is not to be nam'd;
There is not Chastity enough in Language,
Without Offence, to speak it.—O Lucilia!
My Soul is griev'd to think of thy Behaviour.

Lucil.
Good Heavens defend me! how am I beset!

Bell.
O what a Pearl, fair Falshood, hadst thou been,
If half thy outward Graces had been plac'd
About the Thoughts and Counsels of thy Heart!
But fare thee well, most foul, most fair, Adieu;
For thee I'll lock up all the Gates of Love,
And on my Eyelids shall Suspicion reign,
To turn all Beauty into Thoughts of Mischief.

Grati.
Hath no Man's Dagger here a Point for me?

Lucil.
Thou art not, sure, that Monster thou dost seem!
'Tis but to try how much I can forbear.
Have I for this, ungrateful as thou art,
When love of Freedom struggled in my Breast,
And Nature prompted me to live a Virgin,
Broke all those Vows to be thus basely treated;
To have my Fame, unspotted 'till this Moment,
Be sully'd injur'd, ruin'd thus by thee.
I need no Dagger's Point—burst, burst, my Heart:
O welcome Death to cover my Dishonour. [Faints.

Lib.
Hah! Death indeed.—Help, Uncle; help, Lord Protheus.

Byron.
Let us be gone, my Lord; her Shame discover'd
Smothers her Spirits up.

Bell.
Oh fatal Hour!—

Byron.
Oh fatal Plague, if 'twere not thus prevented. [Exeunt Bell. Byr. and Lucen.

Grati.
O Fate! take not away thy heavy Hand,
Death is the fairest Cover for her Shame,
To wrap her Crimes in everlasting Night.

Lib.
How is it, Cousin?

Proth.
Have Comfort, Lady.

Grati.
Dost thou look up?

Proth.
And wherefore should she not?

Grati.
Wherefore! why doth not every earthly thing
Cry Shame upon her? Could she here deny

The Story that is printed in her Blood?
Oh! do not live, do not lift up thy Eyes;
I want thee not.—Griev'd I, I had but one?
Chid I, for this, at frugal Nature's Frame?
I've one too much by thee. Why had I one?
Why wast thou ever lovely in my Eyes?
Why had I not with charitable Hand
Took up a Beggar's Issue at my Gates?
Who, thus defil'd, and cloath'd with Infamy,
I might have said—No Part of it is mine.
But mine! and mine I lov'd! and mine I prais'd!
And mine that I was fond of! Mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her—why she—O! she is fall'n
Into a Pit of such black Infamy,
The Sea hath Drops too few to wash her clean,
And Salt too little which may Season give
To her foul tainted Fame.

Lib.
Goor Sir, be patient,
I'll pledge my Life my Cousin is defam'd.

Grati.
Lady, Were you her Bedfellow last Night?

Lib.
Until last Night, my Lord, I always have been.

Grati.
Confirm'd, confirm'd! O that is stronger made,
Which was before barr'd up with Ribs of Iron.
Would they all lye? and would Bellario lye
Who lov'd her so, that speaking of her Foulness
Wash'd it with Tears?—Hence from her, let her die.

Proth.
I have observ'd her all the time, my Lord;
I mark'd a thousand blushing Apparitions
Glow in her Face, a thousand harmless Shames,
In Angel Whiteness, bear away those Blushes;
And in her Eyes appear'd a gen'rous Fire,
Which spoke her guiltless of the Crime she's charg'd with.

Lib.
What Man is that you are accus'd of, Cousin?

Lucil.
They know that do accuse me, I know none:
If I know more of any Man alive,
Than that which Virgin-Modesty may warrant,
Let ev'ry Curse light on me.—Oh, my Father!
Prove you that any Man with me convers'd

At Hours indecent; or that Yester-night
I from my Window talk'd with any Creature,
Reject me, hate me, torture me to Death.

Lib.
Psha! 'tis all Madness, Villany, or Error.

Proth.
Two of 'em are renown'd for nicest Honour,
And if they lie under some vile Delusion
The Author may be guess'd—your Brother Byron,
Whose very Soul is kept alive by Mischief.

Grati.
I know not.—If they speak but Truth of her
These Hands shall crush her.—If they wrong her Honour,
The proudest of 'em all shall hear they've done it:
Time hath not yet so dry'd this Blood of mine,
Nor Iron Age so prey'd on my Invention,
Nor Fortune made such Havock of my Wealth,
Nor my bad Life so reft me of my Friends,
But they shall find, awak'd in such a sort,
Both Strength of Limb and Policy of Mind,
Ability of Power, and choice of Friends
To quit me of 'em throughly.—

Proth.
Pause a little,
And yield to my Advice: The Lady here
Was left by them as dead; let her a while
Be kept conceal'd, and publish she is dead:
Then will she be lamented and excus'd
By those who now condemn her; for 'tis certain
That what we have we prize not to the Worth,
While we enjoy it; but if once 'tis lost,
Why then we rack the Value, then we find
The Virtue which Possession would not shew us
While it was ours.—
Thus it will happen to the fond Bellario;
When he shall hear she dy'd upon his Words,
Then, if Love e'er had Interest in his Heart,
He'll mourn, and wish he had not so accus'd her,
And toil to find from whence his Error sprang.
Let this be so, and doubt not of Success.

Grati.
My Lord, your Counsel's Medicine to my Soul.
Come, Daughter, I will still believe thee injur'd,
And shrink at nought to justify thy Fame.

For O! a dawning Hope glows in my Breast,
And something whispers we shall still be blest;
That this short Morning-Gloom shall break away,
And leave more clear, more heav'nly bright the Day. [Exeunt.

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