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C.—
War and the waves my fav'rite Youth have spared;
Faithful and fond, through many a painful year,
My Charles will come—Do give me joy, my dear.

D.—
I give you joy, and so may he; but still,
'Tis right to question, if 't is sure he will;
A sailor's open honest heart we prize,
But honest sailors have their ears and eyes.

C.—
Oh! but he surely will on me depend,
Nor dare to doubt the firmness of his friend.

D.—
Be not secure; the very best have foes,
And facts they would not to the world expose;
And these he may be told, if he converse with those.

C.—
Speak you in friendship?—let it be sincere
And naked truth,—and what have I to fear?

D.—
I speak in friendship; and I do confess
If I were you, the Truth should wear a dress:
If Charles should doubt, as lovers do, though blind.
Would you to him present the naked mind?
If it were clear as crystal, yet it checks
One's joy to think that he may fancy specks;
And now, in five long years, we scarcely know
How the mind gets them, and how large they grow.
Let woman be as rigid as a nun,
She cannot censures and surmises shun.
Wonder not, then, at tales that Scandal tells—
Your father's rooms were not like sisters' cells;
Nor pious monks came there, nor prosing friars,
But well-dress'd captains, and approving squires.

C.—
What these to me, admit th' account be true?

D.—
Nay, that yourself describe—they came to you!

C.—
Well! to my friend I may the truth confess,
Poor Captain Glimmer loved me to excess;
Flintham, the young solicitor, that wrote
Those pretty verses, he began to dote;
That Youth from Oxford, when I used to stop
A moment with him, at my feet would drop;
Nor less your Brother, whom, for your dear sake,
I to my favour often used to take:
And was, vile world! my character at stake?
If such reports my Sailor's ear should reach,
What jealous thoughts and fancies may they teach:
If without cause ill-judging men suspect,
What may not all these harmless Truths effect?
And what, my Delia, if our virtues fail,
What must we fear if conscious we are frail;
And well you know, my friend, nor fear t' impart,
The tender frailties of the yielding heart.

D.—
Speak for yourself, fair lady! speak with care;
I, not your frailties, but your suffering share.
You may my counsel, if you will, refuse;
But pray beware, how you my name accuse.

C.—
Accuse you! No! there is no need of One,
To do what long the public voice has done.
What misses then at school, forget the fall
Of Ensign Bloomer, when he leapt the wall?
That was a first exploit, and we were witness all;
And that sad night, upon my faithful breast,
We wept together, till we sank to rest;
You own'd your love—

D.—
A girl, a chit, a child!
Am I for this, and by a friend reviled?

C.—
Then lay your hand, fair creature! on your heart,
And say how many there have had a part:
Six I remember; and if Fame be true,
The handsome Serjeant had his portion too.

D.—
A Serjeant! Madam, if I might advise,
Do use some small discretion in such lies:
A Serjeant, Celia?—

C.—
Handsome, smart, and clean.
Yes! and the fellow had a noble mien,
That might excuse you had you giv'n your hand,—
But this your father could not understand.

D.—
Mercy! how pert and flippant are you grown,
As if you'd not a secret of your own;
Yet would you tremble should your Sailor know,
What I, or my small cabinet, could show:
He might suspect a heart with many a wound
Shallow and deep, could never more be sound;
That of one pierced so oft, so largely bled,
The feeling ceases, and the love is dead;
But sense exists, and passion serves instead.

C.—
Injurious Delia! cold, reproachful maid!
Is thus my confidential faith repaid?
Is this the counsel that we two have held,
When duty trembled, and desire rebell'd;
The sister-vows we made, through many a night,
To aid each other in the arduous fight
With the harsh-minded powers who never think
What nature needs, nor will at weakness wink:
And now, thou cruel girl! is all forgot,
The wish oft whisper'd, the imagined lot,
The secret Hymen, the sequester'd cot?
And will you thus our bond of friendship rend,
And join the world in censure of your friend?
Oh! 'tis not right! as all with scorn must see,
Although the certain mischief falls on me.

D.—

C.—
Oh! never! no!—nor even my Truth profess!
To mute contempt I would alone resort
For the Reporters, and for their Report.
If he profess'd forgiveness, I would cry—
“Forgive such faithlessness! so would not I!
“Such errors pardon! he that so would act
“Would, I am sure, be guilty of the fact;
“Charles, if I thought your spirit was so mean,
“I would not longer in your walks be seen:
“Could you such woman for a moment prize?
“You might forgive her, but you must despise.”

D.—

C.—
Oh! 'tis long since—I might the whole deny—
“So poor, and so contemptible a lie!
“Charles, if 'tis pleasant to abuse your friend,
“Let there be something that she may defend;
“This is too silly—”

D.—
Well you may appear
With so much spirit—not a witness near;
Time puzzles judgment, and, when none explain,
You may assume the airs of high disdain;
But for my Brother—night and morn were you
Together found, th' inseparable two,
Far from the haunts of vulgar prying men—
In the old abbey—in the lonely glen—
In the beech-wood—within the quarry made
By hands long dead—within the silent glade,
Where the moon gleams upon the spring that flows
By the grey willows as they stand in rows—
Shall I proceed? there's not a quiet spot
In all the parish where the pair were not,
Oft watch'd, oft seen. You must not so despise
This weighty charge—Now, what will you devise?

C.—
“Her brother! What, Sir? jealous of a child!
“A friend's relation! Why, the man is wild—
“A boy not yet at college! Come, this proves
“Some truth in you! This is a freak of Love's:
“I must forgive it, though I know not how
“A thing so very simple to allow.
“Pray, if I meet my cousin's little boy,
“And take a kiss, would that your peace annoy?
“But I remember Delia—yet to give
“A thought to this is folly, as I live—
“But I remember Delia made her prayer
“That I would try and give the Boy an air;
“Yet awkward he, for all the pains we took—
“A bookish boy, his pleasure is his book;
“And since the lad is grown to man's estate,
“We never speak—Your bookish youth I hate.”

D.—
Right! and he cannot tell, with all his art,
Our father's will compell'd you both to part.

C.—
Nay, this is needless—

D.—
Oh! when you are tried,
And taught for trial, must I feed your pride?
Oh! that's the vice of which I still complain:
Men could not triumph were not women vain.
But now proceed—say boyhood in this case
(The last obscure one) shields you from disgrace.
But what of Shelley? all your foes can prove,
And all your friends, that here indeed was love.
For three long months you met as lovers meet,
And half the town has seen him at your feet;
Then, on the evil day that saw you part,
Your ashy looks betray'd your aching heart.
With this against you—

C.—

D.—
Well! grant you durst not frown—but people say
That you were dying when he went away:—
Yes! you were ill! of that no doubts remain;
And how explain it?—

C.—

D.—
What I think of this?
Why! if he smile, it is not much amiss;
But there are humours; and, by them possess'd,
A lover will not hearken to a jest.