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 and legible
Than this dumb evidence, this blotted lie.—­
Oh that I were a man, as my soul’s one,
To prove thee traitor, and assassinate
Of her fame! thus moved, I’d tear thee thus,—­ [Tearing the Paper.
And scatter o’er the field thy coward limbs,
Like this foul offspring of thy forging brain.
                                              [Scattering the Paper.