w the wife of Douglas
To meet his rival, yet I durst not do it.
Percy! too much this rebel heart is thine:
Too deeply should I feel each pang I gave;
I cannot hate--but I will banish--thee.
Inexorable duly, O forgive,
If I can do no more!

_Bir._ If he remains,
As I suspect, within the castle walls,
'Twere best I sought him out.

_Elw._ Then tell him, Birtha,
But, Oh! with gentleness, with mercy, tell him,
That we must never, never, meet again.
The purport of my tale must be severe,
But let thy tenderness embalm the wound
My virtue gives. O soften his despair;
But say--we meet no more.

_Enter Percy._

Rash man, he's here!
[_she attempts to go, he seizes her hand._

_Per._ I will be heard; nay, fly not; I will speak;
Lost as I am, I will not be denied
The mournful consolation to complain.

_Elw._ Percy, I charge thee, leave me.

_Per._ Tyrant, no:
I blush at my obedience, blush to think
I left thee here alone, to brave the danger
I now return to share.

_Elw._ That danger's past:
Douglas was soon appeas'd; he nothing knows.
Then leave me, I conjure thee, nor again
Endanger my repose. Yet, ere thou goest,
Restore the scarf.

_Per._ Unkind Elwina, never!
'Tis all that's left me of my buried joys,
All which reminds me that I once was happy.
My letter told thee I would ne'er restore it.

_Elw._ Letter! what letter?

_Per._ That I sent by Harcourt.

_Elw._ Which I have ne'er receiv'd. Douglas perhaps--
Who knows?

_Bir._ Harcourt, t' elude his watchfulness,
Might prudently retire.

_Elw._ Grant heaven it prove so!
[_Elwina going, Percy holds her._

_Per._ Hear me, Elwina; the most savage honour
Forbids not that poor grace.

_Elw._ It bids me fly thee.

_Per._ Then, ere thou goest, if we indeed must part,
To sooth the horrors of eternal exile,
Say but--thou pity'st me!

_Elw._ [_weeps._] O Percy--pity thee!
Imperious honour;--surely I may pity him.
Yet, wherefore pity? no, I envy thee:
For thou hast still the liberty to weep,
In thee 'twill be no crime: thy tears are guiltless,
For they infringe no duty, stain no honour,
And blot no vow; but mine are criminal,
Are drops of shame which wash the cheek of guilt,
And every tear I shed dishonours Douglas.

_Per._ I swear my jealous love e'en grudges thee
Thy sad pre-eminence in wretchedness.

_Elw._ Rouse, rouse, my slumb'ring virtue! Percy, hear me.
Heaven, when it gives such high-wrought souls