tart
not!--the infirmity of my temper has drawn all this misery on me. I
left you fretful and passionate--an untoward accident drew me into a
quarrel--the event is, that I must fly this kingdom instantly. O Julia,
had I been so fortunate as to have called you mine entirely, before
this mischance had fallen on me, I should not so deeply dread my
banishment!

JULIA
My soul is oppressed with sorrow at the nature of your misfortune: had
these adverse circumstances arisen from a less fatal cause, I should
have felt strong comfort in the thought that I could now chase from
your bosom every doubt of the warm sincerity of my love. My heart has
long known no other guardian--I now entrust my person to your
honour--we will fly together. When safe from pursuit, my father's will
may be fulfilled--and I receive a legal claim to be the partner of your
sorrows, and tenderest comforter. Then on the bosom of your wedded
Julia, you may lull your keen regret to slumbering; while virtuous
love, with a cherub's hand, shall smooth the brow of upbraiding
thought, and pluck the thorn from compunction.

FAULKLAND
O Julia! I am bankrupt in gratitude! but the time is so pressing, it
calls on you for so hasty a resolution.--Would you not wish some hours
to weigh the advantages you forego, and what little compensation poor
Faulkland can make you beside his solitary love?

JULIA
I ask not a moment. No, Faulkland, I have loved you for yourself: and
if I now, more than ever, prize the solemn engagement which so long has
pledged us to each other, it is because it leaves no room for hard
aspersions on my fame, and puts the seal of duty to an act of love. But
let us not linger. Perhaps this delay----

FAULKLAND
'Twill be better I should not venture out again till dark. Yet am I
grieved to think what numberless distresses will press heavy on your
gentle disposition!

JULIA
Perhaps your fortune may be forfeited by this unhappy act.--I know not
whether 'tis so; but sure that alone can never make us unhappy. The
little I have will be sufficient to support us; and exile never should
be splendid.

FAULKLAND
Ay, but in such an abject state of life, my wounded pride perhaps may
increase the natural fretfulness of my temper, till I become a rude,
morose companion, beyond your patience to endure. Perhaps the
recollection of a deed my conscience cannot justify may haunt me in
such gloomy and unsocial fits, that I shall hate the tenderness that
would re