pain,
And made Dependency forget its bonds?
Where is the antient, hospitable hall,
Whose vaulted roof once rung with harmless mirth,
Where every passing stranger was a guest,
And every guest a friend? I fear me much,
If once our nobles scorn their rural seats,
Their rural greatness, and their vassals' love,
Freedom and English grandeur are no more.

_Dou._ [_advancing._] My lord, you are welcome.

_Raby._ Sir, I trust I am;
But yet methinks I shall not feel I'm welcome
Till my Elwina bless me with her smiles:
She was not wont with ling'ring step to meet me,
Or greet my coming with a cold embrace;
Now, I extend my longing arms in vain;
My child, my darling, does not come to fill them.
O they were happy days, when she would fly
To meet me from the camp, or from the chace,
And with her fondness overpay my toils!
How eager would her tender hands unbrace
The ponderous armour from my war-worn limbs,
And pluck the helmet which oppos'd her kiss!

_Dou._ O sweet delights, that never must be mine!

_Raby._ What do I hear?

_Dou._ Nothing: inquire no farther.

_Raby._ My lord, if you respect an old man's peace,
If e'er you doted on my much-lov'd child,
As 'tis most sure you made me think you did,
Then, by the pangs which you may one day feel,
When you, like me, shall be a fond, fond father,
And tremble for the treasure of your age,
Tell me what this alarming silence means?
You sigh, you do not speak, nay more, you hear not;
Your lab'ring soul turns inward on itself,
As there were nothing but your own sad thoughts
Deserv'd regard. Does my child live?

_Dou._ She does.

_Raby._ To bless her father!

_Dou._ And to curse her husband!

_Raby._ Ah! have a care, my lord, I'm not so old--

_Dou._ Nor I so base, that I should tamely bear it;
Nor am I so inur'd to infamy,
That I can say, without a burning blush,
She lives to be my curse!

_Raby._ How's this?

_Dou._ I thought
The lily opening to the heaven's soft dews,
Was not so fragrant, and was not so chaste.

_Raby._ Has she prov'd otherwise? I'll not believe it,
Who has traduc'd my sweet, my innocent child?
Yet she's too good to 'scape calumnious tongues.
I know that Slander loves a lofty mark:
It saw her soar a flight above her fellows,
And hurl'd its arrow to her glorious height,
To reach her heart, and bring her to the ground.

_Dou._ Had the rash tongue of Slander so presum'd,
My vengeance had not been of that slow sort
To need a prompter; nor sh