Its wonted bloom, as is the red-vein'd rose,

   To the dim sweetness of the violet—

   These had too soon betray'd you. But take heed;

   The colour of our fate too oft is ting'd,

   Mournful, or bright, but from our first affections.

 Adel. Foul disproportion draws down shame on love,

   But where's the crime in fair equality?

   Mean birth presumes a mind uncultivate,

   Left to the coarseness of its native soil,

   To grow like weeds, and die, like them, neglected;

   But he was born my equal; lineag'd high,

[pg 22]

[pg 22]

   And titled as our great ones.

 Jaq. How easy is our faith to what we wish!

   His story may be feign'd.

 Adel. I'll not mistrust him.

   Since the bless'd hour, that brought him first to save me,

   How often have I listen'd to the tale!

   Gallant, generous youth!

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