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<h3>ACT V.</h3> <h4>SCENE I.—An Apartment in the Earl of Rochdale’s.</h4> [Enter Helen and Fathom.] Fath.  The long and short of it is this—if she marries this lord, she’ll break her heart!  I wish you could see her, madam.  Poor lady! Helen.  How looks she, prithee? Fath.  Marry, for all the world like a dripping-wet cambric handkerchief!  She has no colour nor strength in her; and does nothing but weep—poor lady! Helen.  Tell me again what said she to thee? Fath.  She offered me all she was mistress of to take the letter to Master Clifford.  She drew her purse from her pocket—the ring from her finger—she took her very earrings out of her ears—but I was forbidden, and refused.  And now I’m sorry for it!  Poor lady! Helen.  Thou shouldst be sorry.  Thou hast a hard heart, Fathom. Fath.  I, madam!  My heart is as soft as a woman’s.  You should have seen me when I came out of her chamber—poor lady! Helen.  Did you cry? Fath.  No; but I was as near it as possible.  I a hard heart!  I would do anything to serve her, poor sweet lady! Helen.  Will you take her letter, asks she you again? Fath.  No—I am forbid. Helen.  Will you help Master Clifford to an interview with her? Fath.  No—Master Walter would find it out. Helen.  Will you contrive to get me into her chamber? Fath.  No—you would be sure to bring me into mischief. Helen.  Go to!  You would do nothing to serve her.  You a soft heart!  You have no heart at all!  You feel not for her! Fath.  But I tell you I do—and good right I have to feel for her.  I have been in love myself. Helen.  With your dinner! Fath.  I would it had been!  My pain would soon have been over, and at little cost.  A fortune I squandered upon her!—trinkets—trimmings—treatings—what swallowed up the revenue of a whole year!  Wasn’t I in love?  Six months I courted her, and a dozen crowns all but one did I disburse for her in that time!  Wasn’t I in love?  An hostler—a tapster—and a constable, courted her at the same time, and I offered to cudgel the whole three of them for her!  Wasn’t I in love? Helen.  You are a valiant man, Fathom. Fath.  Am not I?  Walks not the earth the man I am afraid of. Helen.  Fear you not Master Walter? Fath.  No. Helen.  You do! Fath.  I don’t! Helen.  I’ll prove it to you.  You see him breaking your young mistress’s heart, and have not the manhood to stand by her. Fath.  What could I do for her? Helen.  Let her out of prison.  It were the act of a man. Fath.  That man am I! Helen.  Well said, brave Fathom! Fath.  But my place! Helen.  I’ll provide thee with a better one. Fath.  ’Tis a capital place!  So little to do, and so much to get for’t.  Six pounds in the year; two suits of livery; shoes and stockings, and a famous larder.  He’d be a bold man that would put such a place in jeopardy.  My place, madam, my place! Helen.  I tell thee I’ll provide thee with a better place.  Thou shalt have less to do, and more to get.  Now, Fathom, hast thou courage to stand by thy mistress? Fath.  I have! Helen.  That’s right. Fath.  I’ll let my lady out. [Enter Master Walter unperceived.] Helen.  That’s right.  When, Fathom? Fath.  To-night. Helen.  She is to be married to-night. Fath.  This evening, then.  Master Walter is now in the library, the key is on the outside, and I’ll lock him in. Helen.  Excellent!  You’ll do it? Fath.  Rely upon it.  How he’ll stare when he finds himself a prisoner, and my young lady at liberty! Helen.  Most excellent!  You’ll be sure to do it? Fath.  Depend upon me!  When Fathom undertakes a thing, he defies fire and water— Wal.  [Coming forward.]  Fathom! Fath.  Sir! Wal.  Assemble straight the servants. Fath.  Yes, sir! Wal.  Mind, And have them in the hall when I come down. Fath.  Yes, sir! Wal.  And see you do not stir a step, But where I order you. Fath.  Not an inch, sir! Wal.  See that you don’t—away!  So, my fair mistress, [Fathom goes out.] What’s this you have been plotting?  An escape For mistress Julia? Helen.  I avow it. Wal.  Do you? Helen.  Yes; and moreover to your face I tell you, Most hardly do you use her! Wal.  Verily! Helen.  I wonder where’s her spirit!  Had she mine She would not take ’t so easily.  Do you mean To force this marriage on her? Wal.  With your leave. Helen.  You laugh. Wal.  Without it, then.  I don’t laugh now. Helen.  If I were she, I’d find a way to escape. Wal.  What would you do? Helen.  I’d leap out of the window! Wal.  Your window should be barred. Helen.  I’d cheat you still!— I’d hang myself ere I’d be forced to marry! Wal.  Well said!  You shall be married, then, to-night. Helen.  Married to-night! Wal.  As sure as I have said it. Helen.  Two words to that.  Pray who’s to be my bridegroom? Wal.  A daughter’s husband is her father’s choice. Helen.  My father’s daughter ne’er shall wed such husband! Wal.  Indeed! Helen.  I’ll pick a husband for myself. Wal.  Indeed! Helen.  Indeed, sir; and indeed again! Wal.  Go dress you for the marriage ceremony. Helen.  But, Master Walter, what is it you mean? [Enter Modus.] Wal.  Here comes your cousin;—he shall be your bridesman! The thought’s a sudden one,—that will excuse Defect in your appointments.  A plain dress,— So ’tis of white,—will do. Helen.  I’ll dress in black. I’ll quit the castle. Wal.  That you shall not do. Its doors are guarded by my lord’s domestics, Its avenues—its grounds.  What you must do, Do with a good grace!  In an hour, or less, Your father will be here.  Make up your mind To take with thankfulness the man he gives you. Now, [Aside] if they find not out how beat their hearts, I have no skill, not I, in feeling pulses. [Goes out.] Helen.  Why, cousin Modus!  What! will you stand by And see me forced to marry?  Cousin Modus! Have you not got a tongue?  Have you not eyes? Do you not see I’m very—very ill, And not a chair in all the corridor? Mod.  I’ll find one in the study. Helen.  Hang the study! Mod.  My room’s at hand.  I’ll fetch one thence. Helen.  You shan’t I’d faint ere you came back! Mod.  What shall I do? Helen.  Why don’t you offer to support me?  Well? Give me your arm—be quick!  [Modus offers his arm.] Is that the way To help a lady when she’s like to faint? I’ll drop unless you catch me!  [Modus supports her.] That will do. I’m better now—[Modus offers to leave her] don’t leave me!  Is one well Because one’s better?  Hold my hand.  Keep so. I’ll soon recover so you move not.  Loves he— [Aside.] Which I’ll be sworn he does, he’ll own it now. Well, cousin Modus? Mod.  Well, sweet cousin! Helen.  Well? You heard what Master Walter said? Mod.  I did. Helen.  And would you have me marry?  Can’t you speak? Say yes or no. Mod.  No, cousin! Helen.  Bravely said! And why, my gallant cousin? Mod.  Why? Helen.  Ay, why?— Women, you know, are fond of reasons—why Would you not have me marry?  How you blush! Is it because you do not know the reason? You mind me of a story of a cousin Who once her cousin such a question asked. He had not been to college, though—for books, Had passed his time in reading ladies’ eyes. Which he could construe marvellously well, Though writ in language all symbolical. Thus stood they once together, on a day— As we stand now—discoursed as we discourse,— But with this difference,—fifty gentle words He spoke to her, for one she spoke to him!— What a dear cousin!  Well, as I did say, As now I questioned thee, she questioned him. And what was his reply?  To think of it Sets my heart beating—’twas so kind a one! So like a cousin’s answer—a dear cousin! A gentle, honest, gallant, loving cousin! What did he say?—A man might find it out, Though never read he Ovid’s Art of Love— What did he say?  He’d marry her himself! How stupid are you, cousin!  Let me go! Mod.  You are not well yet? Helen.  Yes. Mod.  I’m sure you’re not. Helen.  I’m sure I am. Mod.  Nay, let me hold you, cousin!  I like it. Helen.  Do you?  I would wager you You could not tell me why you like it.  Well? You see how true I know you!  How you stare! What see you in my face to wonder at? Mod.  A pair of eyes! Helen.  At last he’ll find his tongue—[Aside.] And saw you ne’er a pair of eyes before? Mod.  Not such a pair. Helen.  And why? Mod.  They are so bright! You have a Grecian nose. Helen.  Indeed. Mod.  Indeed! Helen.  What kind of mouth have I? Mod.  A handsome one.  I never saw so sweet a pair of lips! I ne’er saw lips at all till now, dear cousin! Helen.  Cousin, I’m well,—you need not hold me now. Do you not hear?  I tell you I am well! I need your arm no longer—take ’t away! So tight it locks me, ’tis with pain I breathe! Let me go, cousin!  Wherefore do you hold Your face so close to mine?  What do you mean? Mod.  You’ve questioned me, and now I’ll question you. Helen.  What would you learn? Mod.  The use of lips. Helen.  To speak. Mod.  Naught else? Helen.  How bold my modest cousin grows! Why, other use know you? Mod.  I do! Helen.  Indeed! You’re wondrous wise?  And pray what is it? Mod.  This!  [Attempts to kiss her.] Helen.  Soft! my hand thanks you, cousin—for my lips I keep them for a husband!—Nay, stand off! I’ll not be held in manacles again! Why do you follow me? Mod.  I love you, cousin! Helen.  O cousin, say you so!  That’s passing strange! Falls out most crossly—is a dire mishap— A thing to sigh for, weep for, languish for, And die for! Mod.  Die for! Helen, Yes, with laughter, cousin, For, cousin, I love you! Mod.  And you’ll be mine? Helen.  I will. Mod.  Your hand upon it. Helen.  Hand and heart. Hie to thy dressing-room, and I’ll to mine— Attire thee for the altar—so will I. Whoe’er may claim me, thou’rt the man shall have me. Away!  Despatch!  But hark you, ere you go, Ne’er brag of reading Ovid’s Art of Love! Mod.  And cousin! stop—one little word with you! [She returns, he snatches a kiss—They go out severally.] <h4>SCENE II.—Julia’s Chamber.</h4> [Enter Julia.] Julia.  No word from him, and evening now set in! He cannot play me false!  His messenger Is dogged—or letter intercepted.  I’m Beset with spies!—No rescue!—No escape!— The hour at hand that brings my bridegroom home! No relative to aid me! friend to counsel me. [A knock at the door.] Come in. [Enter two Female Attendants.] Your will? First Attendant.  Your toilet waits, my lady; ’Tis time you dress. Julia.  ’Tis time I die!  [A peal of bells.]  What’s that? First Attendant.  Your wedding bells, my lady. Julia.  Merrily They ring my knell! [Second Attendant presents an open case.] And pray you what are these? Second Attendant.  Your wedding jewels. Julia.  Set them by. Second Attendant.  Indeed. Was ne’er a braver set!  A necklace, brooch, And earrings all of brilliants, with a hoop To guard your wedding ring. Julia.  ’Twould need a guard That lacks a heart to keep it! Second Attendant.  Here’s a heart Suspended from the necklace—one huge diamond Imbedded in a host of smaller ones! Oh! how it sparkles! Julia.  Show it me!  Bright heart, Thy lustre, should I wear thee, will be false,— For thou the emblem art of love and truth,— From her that wears thee unto him that gives thee. Back to thy case!  Better thou ne’er shouldst leave it— Better thy gems a thousand fathoms deep In their native mine again, than grace my neck, And lend thy fair face to palm off a lie! First Attendant.  Will’t please you dress? Julia.  Ah! in infected clothes New from a pest-house!  Leave me!  If I dress, I dress alone!  O for a friend!  Time gallops! [Attendants go out.] He that should guard me is mine enemy! Constrains me to abide the fatal die, My rashness, not my reason cast!  He comes, That will exact the forfeit!—Must I pay it?— E’en at the cost of utter bankruptcy! What’s to be done?  Pronounce the vow that parts My body from my soul!  To what it loathes Links that, while this is linked to what it loves! Condemned to such perdition!  What’s to be done? Stand at the altar in an hour from this! An hour thence seated at his board—a wife Thence!—frenzy’s in the thought!  What’s to be done? [Enter Master Walter.] Wal.  What! run the waves so high?  Not ready yet! Your lord will soon be here!  The guests collect. Julia.  Show me some way to ’scape these nuptials!  Do it! Some opening for avoidance or escape,— Or to thy charge I’ll lay a broken heart! It may be, broken vows, and blasted honour, Or else a mind distraught! Wal.  What’s this? Julia.  The strait I’m fallen into my patience cannot bear. It frights my reason—warps my sense of virtue! Religion!—changes me into a thing I look at with abhorring! Wal.  Listen to me. Julia.  Listen to me!  If this contract Thou holdest me to—abide thou the result! Answer to heaven for what I suffer!—act! Prepare thyself for such calamity To fall on me, and those whose evil stars Have linked them with me, as no past mishap, However rare, and marvellously sad Can parallel! lay thy account to live A smileless life, die an unpitied death— Abhorred, abandoned of thy kind,—as one Who had the guarding of a young maid’s peace,— Looked on and saw her rashly peril it; And when she saw her danger, and confessed Her fault, compelled her to complete her ruin! Wal.  Hast done? Julia.  Another moment, and I have. Be warned!  Beware how you abandon me To myself!  I’m young, rash, inexperienced! tempted By most insufferable misery! Bold, desperate, and reckless!  Thou hast age Experience, wisdom, and collectedness,— Power, freedom,—everything that I have not, Yet want, as none e’er wanted!  Thou canst save me, Thou oughtst! thou must!  I tell thee at his feet I’ll fall a corse—ere mount his bridal bed! So choose betwixt my rescue and my grave;— And quickly too!  The hour of sacrifice Is near!  Anon the immolating priest Will summon me!  Devise some speedy means To cheat the altar of its victim.  Do it! Nor leave the task to me! Wal.  Hast done? Julia.  I have. Wal.  Then list to me—and silently, if not With patience.—[Brings chairs for himself and her.] How I watched thee from thy childhood I’ll not recall to thee.  Thy father’s wisdom— Whose humble instrument I was—directed Your nonage should be passed in privacy, From your apt mind that far outstripped your years, Fearing the taint of an infected world;— For, in the rich grounds, weeds once taking root, Grow strong as flowers.  He might be right or wrong! I thought him right; and therefore did his bidding. Most certainly he loved you—so did I; Ay! well as I had been myself your father! [His hand is resting upon his knee, Julia attempts to take it—he withdraws it—looks at her—she hangs her head.] Well; you may take my hand!  I need not say How fast you grew in knowledge, and in goodness,— That hope could scarce enjoy its golden dreams So soon fulfilment realised them all! Enough.  You came to womanhood.  Your heart, Pure as the leaf of the consummate bud, That’s new unfolded by the smiling sun, And ne’er knew blight nor canker! [Julia attempts to place her other hand on his shoulder—he leans from her—looks at her—she hangs her head again.] Put it there! Where left I off?  I know!  When a good woman Is fitly mated, she grows doubly good, How good soe’er before!  I found the man I thought a match for thee; and, soon as found, Proposed him to thee.  ’Twas your father’s will, Occasion offering, you should be married Soon as you reached to womanhood.—You liked My choice, accepted him.—We came to town; Where, by important matter summoned thence, I left you an affianced bride! Julia.  You did! You did!  [Leans her head upon her hand and weeps.] Wal.  Nay, check thy tears!  Let judgment now, Not passion, be awake.  On my return, I found thee—what?  I’ll not describe the thing I found thee then!  I’ll not describe my pangs To see thee such a thing!  The engineer Who lays the last stone of his sea-built tower, It cost him years and years of toil to raise— And, smiling at it, tells the winds and waves To roar and whistle now—but, in a night, Beholds the tempest sporting in its place— May look aghast, as I did! Julia.  [Falling on her knees.]  Pardon me! Forgive me! pity me! Wal.  Resume thy seat.  [Raises her.] I pity thee; perhaps not thee alone It fits to sue for pardon. Julia.  Me alone! None other! Wal.  But to vindicate myself, I name thy lover’s stern desertion of thee. What wast thou then with wounded pride?  A thing To leap into a torrent! throw itself From a precipice! rush into a fire!  I saw Thy madness—knew to thwart it were to chafe it— And humoured it to take that course, I thought, Adopted, least ’twould rue! Julia.  ’Twas wisely done. Wal.  At least ’twas for the best. Julia.  To blame thee for it Was adding shame to shame!  But Master Walter, These nuptials!—must they needs go on? Servant.  [Entering.]  More guests Arrive. Wal.  Attend to them.  [Servant goes out.] Julia.  Dear Master Walter! Is there no way to escape these nuptials? Wal.  Know’st not What with these nuptials comes?  Hast thou forgot? Julia.  What? Wal.  Nothing!—I did tell thee of a thing. Julia.  What was it? Wal.  To forget it was a fault! Look back and think. Julia.  I can’t remember it. Wal.  Fathers, make straws your children!  Nature’s nothing, Blood nothing!  Once in other veins it runs, It no more yearneth for the parent flood, Than doth the stream that from the source disparts. Talk not of love instinctive—what you call so Is but the brat of custom!  Your own flesh By habit cleaves to you—without, Hath no adhesion.  [Aside.]  So; you have forgot You have a father, and are here to meet him! Julia.  I’ll not deny it. Wal.  You should blush for’t. Julia.  No! No! no: hear, Master Walter! what’s a father That you’ve not been to me?  Nay, turn not from me, For at the name a holy awe I own, That now almost inclines my knee to earth! But thou to me, except a father’s name, Hast all the father been: the care—the love— The guidance—the protection of a father. Canst wonder, then, if like thy child I feel,— And feeling so, that father’s claim forget Whom ne’er I knew save by the name of one? Oh, turn to me, and do not chide me! or If thou wilt chide, chide on! but turn to me! Wal.  [Struggling with emotion.]  My Julia! [Embraces her.] Julia.  Now, dear Master Walter, hear me! Is there no way to ’scape these nuptials? Wal.  Julia, A promise made admits not of release, Save by consent or forfeiture of those Who hold it—so it should be pondered well Before we let it go.  Ere man should say I broke the word I had the power to keep, I’d lose the life I had the power to part with! Remember, Julia, thou and I to-day Must, to thy father, of thy training render A strict account.  While honour’s left to us, We have something—nothing, having all but that. Now for thy last act of obedience, Julia! Present thyself before thy bridegroom!  [She assents.]  Good! My Julia’s now herself!  Show him thy heart, And to his honour leave’t to set thee free Or hold thee bound.  Thy father will be by! <h4>SCENE III.—The Banqueting’ Room.</h4> [Enter Master Walter and Master Heartwell.] Heart.  Thanks, Master Walter!  Ne’er was child more bent To do her father’s will, you’ll own, than mine: Yet never one more froward. Wal.  All runs fair— Fair may all end!  To-day you’ll learn the cause That took me out of town.  But soft a while,— Here comes the bridegroom, with his friends, and here The all-obedient bride. [Enter on one hand Julia, and on the other hand Lord Rochdale with Lord Tinsel and friends—afterwards Clifford.] Roch.  Is she not fair? Tin.  She’ll do.  Your servant, lady!  Master Walter, We’re glad to see you.  Sirs, you’re welcome all. What wait they for?  Are we to wed or not? We’re ready—why don’t they present the bride? I hope they know she is to wed an earl. Roch.  Should I speak first? Tin.  Not for your coronet! I, as your friend, may make the first advance. We’ve come here to be married.  Where’s the bride? Wal.  There stands she, lord; if ’tis her will to wed, His lordship’s free to take her. Tin.  Not a step! I, as your friend, may lead her to your lordship. Fair lady, by your leave. Julia.  No! not to you. Tin.  I ask your hand to give it to his lordship. Julia.  Nor to his lordship—save he will accept My hand without my heart! but I’ll present My knee to him, and, by his lofty rank, Implore him now to do a lofty deed Will lift its stately head above his rank,— Assert him nobler yet in worth than name,— And, in the place of an unwilling bride, Unto a willing debt or make him lord,— Whose thanks shall be his vassals, night and day That still shall wait upon him! Tin.  What means this? Julia.  What is’t behoves a wife to bring her lord? Wal.  A whole heart, and a true one. Julia.  I have none! Not half a heart—the fraction of a heart! Am I a woman it befits to wed? Wal.  Why, where’s thy heart? Julia.  Gone—out of my keeping! Lost, past recovery: right and title to it— And all given up! and he that’s owner on’t, So fit to wear it, were it fifty hearts, I’d give it to him all! Wal.  Thou dost not mean His lordship’s secretary? Julia.  Yes.  Away Disguises! in that secretary know The master of the heart, of which the poor, Unvalued, empty casket, at your feet— Its jewel gone—I now despairing throw! [Kneels.] Of his lord’s bride he’s lord! lord paramount! To whom her virgin homage first she paid,— ’Gainst whom rebelled in frowardness alone, Nor knew herself how loyal to him, till Another claimed her duty—then awoke To sense of all she owed him—all his worth— And all her undeservings! Tin.  Lady, we came not here to treat of hearts,— But marriage; which, so please you, is with us A simple joining, by the priest, of hands. A ring’s put on, a prayer or two is said; You’re man and wife,—and nothing more!  For hearts, We oftener do without, than with them, lady! Clif.  So does not wed this lady! Tin.  Who are you? Clif.  I’m secretary to the Earl of Rochdale. Tin.  My lord! Roch.  I know him not— Tin.  I know him now— Your lordship’s rival!  Once Sir Thomas Clifford. Clif.  Yes, and the bridegroom of that lady then, Then loved her—loves her still! Julia.  Was loved by her— Though then she knew it not!—is loved by her, As now she knows, and all the world may know! Tin.  We can’t be laughed at.  We are here to wed, And shall fulfil our contract. Julia.  Clifford! Clif.  Julia! You will not give your hand? [A pause.  Julia seems utterly lost.] Wal.  You have forgot Again.  You have a father! Julia.  Bring him now,— To see thy Julia justify thy training, And lay her life down to redeem her word! Wal.  And so redeems her all!  Is it your will, My lord, these nuptials should go on? Roch.  It is. Wal.  Then is it mine they stop! Tin.  I told your lordship You should not keep a Hunchback for your agent. Wal.  Thought like my father, my good lord, who said He would not have a Hunchback for his son— So do I pardon you the savage slight. My lord, that I am not as straight as you, Was blemish neither of my thought nor will, My head nor heart.  It was no act of mine.— Yet did it curdle Nature’s kindly milk E’en where ’tis richest—in a parent’s breast— To cast me out to heartless fosterage, Nor heartless always, as it proved—and give My portion to another! the same blood— But I’ll be sworn, in vein, my lord, and soul— Although his trunk did swerve no more than yours— Not half so straight as I. Tin.  Upon my life You’ve got a modest agent, Rochdale!  Now He’ll prove himself descended—mark my words— From some small gentleman Wal.  And so you thought, Where Nature played the churl, it would be fit That fortune played it too.  You would have had My lord absolve me of my agency! Fair lord, the flaw did cost me fifty times— A hundred times my agency:—but all’s Recovered.  Look, my lord, a testament To make a pension of his lordship’s rent-roll! It is my father’s, and was left by him, In case his heir should die without a son, Then to be opened.  Heaven did send a son To bless the heir.  Heaven took its gift away, He died—his father died.  And Master Walter— The unsightly agent of his lordship there— The Hunchback whom your lordship would have stripped Of his agency—is now the Earl of Rochdale! Tin.  We’ve made a small mistake here.  Never mind, ’Tis nothing in a lord. Julia.  The Earl of Rochdale! Wal.  And what of that?  Thou know’st not half my greatness! A prouder title, Julia, have I yet, Sooner than part with which I’d give that up, And be again plain Master Walter.  What! Dost thou not apprehend me?  Yes, thou dost! Command thyself; don’t gasp.  My pupil—daughter! Come to thy father’s heart! [Julia rushes into his arms.] [Enter Fathom.] Fath.  Thievery!  Elopement—escape—arrest! Wal.  What’s the matter? Fath.  Mistress Helen is running away with Master Modus—Master Modus is running away with Mistress Helen—but we have caught them, secured them, and here they come, to receive the reward of their merits. [Enter Helen and Modus, followed by Servants.] Helen.  I’ll ne’er wed man, if not my cousin Modus. Mod.  Nor woman I, save cousin Helen’s she. Wal.  [To Master Heartwell.]  A daughter, have you, and a nephew, too, Without their match in duty!  Let them marry. For you, sir, who to-day have lost an earldom, Yet would have shared that earldom with my child— My only one—content yourself with prospect Of the succession; it must fall to you, And fit yourself to grace it.  Ape not those Who rank by pride.  The man of simplest bearing Is yet a lord, when he’s a lord indeed! Tin.  The paradox is obsolete.  Ne’er heed! Learn from his book, and practise out of mine! Wal.  Sir Thomas Clifford, take my daughter’s hand! If now you know the master of her heart! Give it, my Julia!  You suspect, I see, And rightly, there has been some masking here. Content thee, daughter, thou shalt know anon, How jealousy of my mis-shapen back Made me mistrustful of a child’s affections— Who doubted e’en a wife’s—so that I dropped The title of thy father, lest thy duty Should pay the debt thy love could solve alone. All this and more, that to thy friends and thee Pertains, at fitting time thou shalt be told. But now thy nuptials wait—the happy close Of thy hard trial—wholesome, though severe! The world won’t cheat thee now—thy heart is proved;— Thou know’st thy peace by finding out its bane, And ne’er will act from reckless impulse more! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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