_Alv._ What interest can I have, or what delight,
To blaze their shame, or to divulge my own?
If proved, you hate me; if unproved, condemn.
Not racks or tortures could have forced this secret,
But too much care to save you from a crime,
Which would have sunk you both. For, let me say,
Almeyda's beauty well deserves your love.

_Alm._ Out, base impostor! I abhor thy praise.

_Dor._ It looks not like imposture; but a truth,
On utmost need revealed.

_Seb._ Did I expect from Dorax this return?
Is this the love renewed?

_Dor._ Sir, I am silent;
Pray heaven my fears prove false!

_Seb._ Away! you all combine to make me wretched.

_Alv._ But hear the story of that fatal love,
Where every circumstance shall prove another;
And truth so shine by her own native light,
That, if a lie were mixt, it must be seen.

_Seb._ No; all may still be forged, and of a piece.
No; I can credit nothing thou canst say.

_Alv._ One proof remains, and that's your father's hand,
Firmed with his signet; both so fully known,
That plainer evidence can hardly be,
Unless his soul would want her heaven awhile,
And come on earth to swear.

_Seb._ Produce that writing.

_Alv._ [_To DORAX._] Alonzo has it in his custody;
The same, which, when his nobleness redeemed me,
And in a friendly visit owned himself
For what he is, I then deposited,
And had his faith to give it to the king.

_Dor._ Untouched, and sealed, as when intrusted with me,
[_Giving a sealed Paper to the King._
Such I restore it with a trembling hand,
Lest aught within disturb your peace of soul.

_Seb._ Draw near, Almeyda; thou art most concerned,
For I am most in thee.-- [_Tearing open the Seals._
Alonzo, mark the characters;
Thou know'st my father's hand, observe it well;
And if the impostor's pen have made one slip
That shews it counterfeit, mark that, and save me.

_Dor._ It looks indeed too like my master's hand:
So does the signet: more I cannot say;
But wish 'twere not so like.

_Seb._ Methinks it owns
The black adultery, and Almeyda's birth;
But such a mist of grief comes o'er my eyes,
I cannot, or I would not, read it plain.

_Alm._ Heaven cannot be more true, than this is false.

_Seb._ O couldst thou prove it with the same assurance!
Speak, hast thou ever seen my father's hand?

_Alm._ No; but my mother's honour has been read
By me, and by the world, in all her acts,
In characters more plain a