rifice to your ambition?
Oh, it smells foul, indeed, of rankest malice,
And the vile statesman's craft. You dare not, sure,
Thus bid defiance to each show of worth,
Each claim of honour: dare not injure thus
Your suffering country, in her bravest son!

_Bur._ But why should stern reproach her angry brow
Let fall on me? Am I alone the cause
That gives this working humour strength? Do I
Instruct the public voice to warp his actions?
Justice, untaught, shall poise the impartial scales,
And every curious eye may mark the beam.

_South._ The specious shield, which private malice bears,
Is ever blazon'd with some public good;
Behind that artful fence, skulk low, conceal'd,
The bloody purpose, and the poison'd shaft;
Ambition there, and envy, nestle close;
From whence they take their fatal aim unseen;
And honest merit is their destined mark.

_Bur._ My country's welfare, and my queen's command,
Have ever been my guiding stars through life,
My sure direction still.--To these I now
Appeal;--from these, no doubt, this lord's misconduct
Hath widely stray'd; and reason, not reviling,
Must now befriend his cause.

_South._ How ill had Providence
Disposed the suffering world's oppressed affairs,
Had sacred right's eternal rule been left
To crafty politicians' partial sway!
Then power and pride would stretch the enormous grasp,
And call their arbitrary portion, justice:
Ambition's arm, by avarice urged, would pluck
The core of honesty from virtue's heart,
And plant deceit and rancour in its stead:
Falsehood would trample then on truth and honour,
And envy poison sweet benevolence.
Oh, 'tis a goodly group of attributes,
And well befits some statesman's righteous rule!
Out, out upon such bloody doings!
The term of being is not worth the sin;
No human bosom can endure its dart.
Then put this cruel purpose from thee far,
Nor let the blood of Essex whelm thy soul.

_Bur._ 'Tis well, my lord! your words no comment need;
No doubt, they've well explained your honest meaning;
'Tis clear and full. To parts, like yours, discretion
Would be a clog, and caution but incumbrance.
Yet mark me well, my lord; the clinging ivy
With the oak may rise, but with it too must fall.

_South._ Thy empty threats, ambitious man, hurt not
The breast of truth. Fair innocence, and faith,
Those strangers to thy practised heart, shall shield
My honour, and preserve my friend. In vain,
Thy malice, with unequal arm, shall strive
To tear the applau