_Seb._ Not heaven and earth combined can hinder it.
_Alv._ Then witness heaven and earth, how loth I am
To say, you must not, nay, you cannot, wed:
And since not only a dead father's fame,
But more, a lady's honour, must be touched,
Which, nice as ermines, will not bear a soil,
Let all retire, that you alone may hear
What even in whispers I would tell your ear. [_All are going out._
_Alm._ Not one of you depart; I charge you, stay!
And were my voice a trumpet loud as fame,
To reach the round of heaven, and earth, and sea,
All nations should be summoned to this place,
So little do I fear that fellow's charge:
So should my honour, like a rising swan,
Brush with her wings the falling drops away,
And proudly plough the waves.
_Seb._ This noble pride becomes thy innocence;
And I dare trust my father's memory,
To stand the charge of that foul forging tongue.
_Alv._ It will be soon discovered if I forge.
Have you not heard your father in his youth,
When newly married, travelled into Spain,
And made a long abode in Philip's court?
_Seb._ Why so remote a question, which thyself
Can answer to thyself? for thou wert with him,
His favourite, as I oft have heard thee boast,
And nearest to his soul.
_Alv._ Too near, indeed; forgive me, gracious heaven,
That ever I should boast I was so near,
The confident of all his young amours!--
And have not you, unhappy beauty, heard, [_To ALM.
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