The Conflict; or, Love, Honour, and Pride

From whom they wish their Queen to chuse a Consort. First, my dear Mother! let me mount my throne, Before I fix with whom, that Throne to share. Ah! my foreboding fears! Your choice is made. Reflect, my Child! whilst yet the power remains, What grief, what dangers may await your love. Resist this fatal impulse of your heart, Which will embitter all your future life. Could my maternal bosom yield consent, Yet would the Nobles of your Realm submit To bow the knee to one, plebeian born? Too much, alas! the valiant Carlos charms you. But what avails his matchless worth? His blood Springs from some base, contaminated source, Which he, through pride, with conscious shame, conceals. Yet, though conceal'd, its source may be most pure. For have not princes, men of high renown, Disguis'd themselves, their names, and birth deny'd, Whose swords alone have signaliz'd their fame; Subduing kingdoms, and bestowing crowns: Singly the fate of empires, and of kings. Is this the flattering hope your heart has cherish'd? And the distinction which you pay to Carlos, Is it then love, grafted on hope fallacious? Ah! my dear Child! give not such room for censure, Nor cherish sentiments, you must subdue. Avoid the converse which destroys your peace, And lends the venom'd tongue of slander, speech. Such rare endowments, and such gallant worth, As Carlos owns, in noble minds, excite Esteem, complacent friendship, and urbanity. I but that tribute of regard bestow, Which his transcendent virtues justly claim; Chaste as a sister's innocent affection. Can this reflect upon my virgin fame, Or draw the breath of calumny against me? Beauty and youth, with princely rank combin'd, Winning admirers, draw observers too.