[]A Bold Stroke for a Huſband.

SCENE I.

HIST! Pedro! Pedro!

There he is: do'ſt ſee him? juſt turning by St. An⯑tony in the corner. Now, do you tell him that your miſtreſs is not at home; and if his jealous Donſhip ſhould inſiſt on ſearching the houſe, as he did yeſterday, ſay that ſomebody is ill—the black has got a fever, or that—

Pho, pho, get you in. Don't I know that the duty of a iacquey in Madrid is to lie with a good grace? I have been ſtudying it now for a whole week, and I'll defy Don or Devil to ſurprize me into a truth. Get you in, I ſay—here he comes.

Donna Laura is not at home, Sir.

Not at home!—come, Sir, what have you re⯑ceived for telling that lie?

Lie!—Lie!—Signor!—

It muſt be a lie by your promptneſs in delivering it.—What a fool does your miſtreſs truſt!—A clever raſcal would have waited my approach, and, delivering the meſſage with eaſy coolneſs, deceived me—thou haſt been on the watch, and runneſt towards me with a face of ſtupid importance, bawling, that ſhe may hear through the lettice how well thou obeyeſt her,—"Donna Laura is not at home, Sir."

Hear through the lettice—hah! by'r lady ſhe muſt have long ears, to reach from the grotto in the garden to the ſtreet.

Hah!

Now, Sir, your ears ſhall be longer, if you do not tell me who is with her in the grotto.

In the grotto, Sir!—did I ſay any thing about the grotto? I—I only meant that—

Fool!—doſt thou trifle with me? who is with her?

Oh!—why nobody, Sir—only the pretty young gentleman's valet, waiting for an anſwer to a letter he brought. There! I have ſaved my ears at the expence of my place. I have worn this fine coat but a week, and I ſhall be ſent back to Segovia for not being able to lie, though I have been learning the art ſix days and nights.

Well—come this way—if thou wilt promiſe to be faithful to me, I will not betray thee: nor at preſent enter the houſe.

Oh, Sir, bleſſings on you!

How often does the pretty young gentleman viſit her?

Every day, Sir—If he miſſes, madam's ſtark wild.

Where does he live?

Truly, I know not, Sir.

How!

By the honeſty of my mother, I cannot tell, Sir. She calls him Florio;—that's his Chriſtian name—his Heathen name I never heard.

You muſt acquaint me when they are next together.

Lord, Sir, if there ſhould be any blood ſpilt!

Promiſe,—or I'll lead thee by the ears to the grotto.

I promiſe, I promiſe.

There, take that,

and if thou art faithful I'll treble it. Now go in, and be a good lad—and, d'ye hear?—you may tell lies to every body elſe, but remember you muſt always ſpeak truth to me.

I will, Sir,—I will.

'Tis well my paſſion is extinguiſhed, for I can now act with coolneſs; I'll wait patiently for the hour of their ſecurity, and take them in the ſofteſt moments of their love. But if ever I truſt to woman more—may every—

Fye, ladies! keep your curtains drawn ſo late! The ſun is up—'tis time to look abroad—

Nay, if you are determined on night and ſilence, I take my leave. A woman without prattle, is like Burgundy without ſpirit.—Bright eyes, to touch me, muſt belong to ſweet tongues.

Sure 'tis Julio. Hey!

Don Carlos? Yes, by all the ſober gods of matrimony!—Why, what buſineſs, goodman gravity, can'ſt thou have in Madrid—I underſtand you are married—quietly ſettled in your own paſtures—father of a family, and the inſtructive companion of country vine dreſſers—ha! ha!

'Tis falſe, by heaven!—I have forſworn the country—left my family, and run away from my wife.

Really! then matrimony has not totally de⯑ſtroyed thy free will.

'Tis with difficulty I have preſerv'd it though; for women, thou knoweſt, are moſt unreaſonable beings! as ſoon as I had exhauſted my ſtock of love tales, which, with management, laſted beyond the honey-moon, ma⯑dam grew ſullen,—I found home dull, and amuſed myſelf with the pretty peaſants of the neighbourhood—Worſe and worſe!—we had nothing now but faintings, tears and hyſterics for twenty-four honey-moons more.—So one morning I gave her in her ſleep a farewell kiſs, to com⯑fort her when ſhe ſhould awake, and poſted to Madrid; where, if it was not for the remembrance of the clog at my heel, I ſhould bound o'er the regions of pleaſure, with more ſpirit than a young Arabian on his mountains.

Do you find this clog no hindrance in affairs of gallantry?

Not much.—In that houſe there—but, d—her, ſhe's perſidious!—in that houſe is a woman of beauty, with pretenſions to character and fortune, who devoted herſelf to my paſſion.

If ſhe's perſidious, give her to the winds.

Ah, but there is a rub, Julio, I have been a ſool—a woman's ſool!—In a ſtate of intoxication, ſhe wheedled me, or rather cheated me, out of a ſettlement.

Pho! is that—

Oh! but you know not its nature. A ſettle⯑ment of lands that both honour and gratitude ought to have preſerved ſacred from ſuch baſe alienation.—In ſhort, if I cannot recover them, I am a ruined man.

Nay, this ſeems a worſe clog than t'other—Poor Carlos! ſo bewiv'd and be—

Prithee have compaſſion.

An appointment, I'll be ſworn, by that air of myſtery and ſatisfaction—come, be friendly, and com⯑municate.

You are married, Car⯑los;—that's all I have to ſay—you are married.

Pho, that's paſt long ago, and ought to be for⯑gotten; but if a man does a fooliſh thing once, he'll hear of it all his life.

Aye, the time has been when thou might'ſt have been entruſted with ſuch a dear ſecret,—when I might have opened the billet, and feaſted thee with the ſweet meandring ſtrokes at the bottom, which form her name, when—

What, 'tis from a woman then?

It is.

Handſome?

Hum—not abſolutely handſome, but ſhe'll paſs, with one who has not had his taſte ſpoilt by—matri⯑mony.

Malicious dog!—Is ſhe young?

Under twenty—fair complexion, azure eyes, red lips, teeth of pearl, poliſhed neck, fine turn'd ſhape, graceful—

Hold, Julio, if thou lov'ſt me!—Is it poſſible ſhe can be ſo bewitching a creature?

'Tis poſſible—though, to deal plainly, I never ſaw her; but I love my own pleaſure ſo well, that I could fancy all that, and ten times more.

What ſtar does ſhe inhabit?

Irradiate thou ſhould'ſt have ſaid, after ſuch a deſcription—but, faith, I know not; my orders are to be in waiting at ſeven, at the Prado.

Prado!—hey!—gad! can't you take me with you? for though I have forſworn the ſex myſelf, and have done with them for ever, yet I may be of uſe to you, you know.

Faith, I can't ſee that—however, as you are a poor woe-begone married mortal, I'll have compaſſion, and ſuffer thee to come.

Then I am a man again! Wife, avaunt!—miſ⯑treſs, farewell!—At ſeven you ſay?

Exactly.

I'll meet thee at Philippi!

SCENE II.

There, will that do? My lady ſent me to make her up a noſegay; theſe orange flowers are deli⯑cious, and this roſe, how ſweet!

Pho, what ſignifics wearing ſweets in her boſom, unleſs they would ſweeten her manners?—'tis amazing you can be ſo much at your eaſe; one might think your lady's tongue was a lute, and her morning ſcolds an agreeable ſerenade.

So they are—Cuſtom you know. I have been uſed to her muſic now theſe two years, and I don't be⯑lieve I could reliſh my breakfaſt without it.

I would rather never break my faſt, than do it on ſuch terms. What a difference between your miſtreſs and mine; Donna Victoria is as much too gentle, as her couſin is too harſh.

Aye, and you ſee what ſhe gets by it; had ſhe been more ſpirited, perhaps her huſband would not have forſaken her;—men enliſted under the matrimonial ban⯑ner, like thoſe under the King's, would be often tempted to run away from their colours, if fear did not keep them in dread of deſertion.

If making a huſband afraid is the way to keep him faithful, I believe your lady will be the happieſt wiſe in Spain.

Ha, ha, ha! how people may be deceived!—nay, how people are deceived!—but time will diſcover all things.

What! what is there a ſecret in the buſineſs, Minette? if there is, hang time! let's have it directly.

Now, if I dar'd but tell ye—lud! how I could ſurprize ye!—

Don't go.

I muſt go; I am on the very brink of betraying my miſtreſs,—I muſt leave you—mercy upon me!—it riſes like new bread.

I hope it will choak ye, if you ſtir 'till I know all.

Will you never breathe a ſyllable?

Never.

Will you ſtrive to forget it the moment you have heard it?

I'll ſwear to myſelf forty times a-day to forget it.

You are ſure you will not let me ſtir from this ſpot till you know the whole.

Not as far as a thruſh hops.

So! now, then, in one word,—here it goes. Though every body ſuppoſes my lady an errant ſcold, ſhe's no more a—

Out upon't! e—h—h!

Oh, St. Jerome!—here is her father, and his privy counſellor, Gaſper. I can never communicate a ſe⯑cret in quiet. Well! come to my chamber, for, now my hand's in, you ſhall have the whole.—I wou'd not keep it another day, to be confidant to an infanta.

Take comfort, Sir; take comfort.

Take it!—why where the devil ſhall I find it! You may ſay, take phyſic Sir, or, take poiſon, Sir—they are to be had; but what ſignifies bidding me take comfort, when I can neither buy it, beg it, nor ſteal it?

But patience will bring it, Sir.

'Tis falſe, ſirrah.—Patience is a cheat, and the man that rank'd her with the cardinal virtues was a fool.—I have had patience at bed and board theſe three long years, but the comfort ſhe promis'd, has never called in with a civil how d'ye.

Ay, Sir, but you know the poets ſay that the twin ſiſter and companion of comfort is good humour.—Now if you would but drop that agreeable acidity, which is ſo conſpicuous—

Then let my daughter drop her perverſe hu⯑mour; 'tis a more certain bar to marriage than uglineſs or folly; and will ſend me to my grave, at laſt, without male heirs.

How many have laid ſiege to her! But that humour of her's, like the works of Gibraltar, no Spaniard can find pregnable.

Ay, well—Troy held out but ten years—Let her once tell over her beads, unmarried, at five-and-twenty, and, my life upon it, ſhe ends the roſary, with a hearty prayer for a good huſband.

What, d'ye expect me to wait till the horrors of old maideniſm frighten her into civility? No, no;—I'll ſhut her up in a convent, marry myſelf, and have heirs in ſpite of her. There's my neighbour Don Vaſquez's daugh⯑ter, ſhe is but nineteen—

The very ſtep I was going to recommend, Sir. You are but a young gentleman of ſixty-three, I take it; and a huſband of ſixty-three, who marries a wife of nine⯑teen, will never want heirs, take my word for it.

What! do you joke, ſirrah?

Oh no, Sir—not if you are ſerious. I think it would be one of the pleaſanteſt things in the world—Madam would throw a new life into the family; and when you are above ſtairs in the gout, Sir, the muſic of her concerts, and the ſpirit of her converzationes would reach your ſick bed, and be a thouſand times more com⯑forting then flannels and panada.

Come, come, I underſtand ye.—But this daugh⯑ter of mine—I ſhall give her but two chances more.—Don Garcia and Don Vincentio will both be here to-day, and if ſhe plays over the old game, I'll marry to-morrow morning, if I hang myſelf the next.

You decide right, Signor; at ſixty-three the marriage nooſe and the hempen nooſe ſhould always go together.

Why, you dog you, do you ſuppoſe—There's Don Garcia—there he is, coming through the portico. Run to my daughter, and bid her remember what I have ſaid to her.

She has had her leſſon—but another memento mayn't be amiſs—a young ſlut!—pretty, and witty, and rich—a match for a prince, and yet—but hiſt!—Not a word to my young man, if I can but keep him in ignorance 'till he is married, he muſt make the beſt of his bargain after⯑wards, as other honeſt men have done before him.

Welcome, Don Garcia!—why you are rather before your time.

Gallantry forbid that I ſhould not, when a fair lady is concern'd. Should Donna Olivia welcome me as frankly as you do, I ſhall think I have been tardy.

When you made your overtures, Signor, I un⯑derſtood it was from inclination to be allied to my family, not from a particular paſſion to my daughter. Have you ever ſeen her?

But once—that tranſiently—yet ſufficient to convince me that ſhe is charming.

Why yes, tho' I ſay it, there are few prettier women in Madrid; and ſhe has got enemies amongſt her own ſex accordingly. They pretend to ſay that—I ſay, Sir, they have reported that ſhe is not bleſs'd with that kind of docility and gentleneſs that a—now, tho' ſhe may not be ſo very placid, and inſipid, as ſome young women, yet, upon the whole—

Oh fye, Sir!—not a word—A beauty cannot be ill-temper'd; gratified vanity keeps her in good humour with herſelf, and every body about her.

Yes, as you ſay—vanity is a prodigious ſweet⯑ner; and Olivia, conſidering how much ſhe has been hu⯑moured, is as gentle and pliant as—

Oh, Sir! ſhield me from my miſtreſs—She is in one of her old tempers—the whole houſe is in an up⯑roar.—I cannot ſupport it!

Huſh!

No, Sir, I can't huſh—A ſaint could not bear it. I am tired of her tyranny, and muſt quit her ſervice.

Then quit it in a moment—go to my ſteward, and receive your wages—go—begone! 'Tis a couſin of my daughter's ſhe is ſpeaking of.

A couſin, Sir!—No, 'tis Donna Olivia, your daughter—my miſtreſs. Oh, Sir! you ſeem to be a ſweet tender-hearted young gentleman—'twould move you to pity if—

I'll move you, huſſey, to ſome purpoſe, if you don't move off.

I am really confounded—can the charming Olivia—

Spite, Sir—meer malice! My daughter has re⯑fus'd her ſome caſt gown, or ſome—

Where is ſhe!—Where is Minette?

Oh 'tis all over!—the tempeſt is coming.

Oh, you vile creature!—to ſpeak to me!—to anſwer me!—am I made to be anſwer'd?

Daughter! Daughter!

Becauſe I threw my work-bag at her, ſhe had the inſolence to complain; and, on my repeating it, ſaid ſhe would not bear it.—Servants chuſe what they ſhall bear!

When you are married, Ma'am, I hope your huſband will bear your humour, leſs patiently than I have done.

My huſband!—doſt think my huſband ſhall contradict my will? Oh, I long to ſet a pattern to thoſe milky wives, whoſe mean compliances degrade the ſex.

Opportune!

The only huſband on record who knew how to treat a wife was Socrates; and tho' his lady was a Grecian, I have ſome reaſon to believe her deſcendants match'd into our family; and never ſhall my tame ſubmiſſion diſgrace my anceſtry.

Heav'ns! why have you never curb'd this in⯑temperate ſpirit, Don Caeſar?

Curb'd, Sir! talk thus to your groom—curbs and bridles for a woman's tongue!

Not for your's, lady, truly! 'tis too late. But had the torrent, now ſo overbearing, been taken at its ſpring, it might have been ſtem'd, and turn'd in gentle ſtreamlets at the maſter's pleaſure.

A miſtake, friend!—my ſpirit, at its ſpring, was too powerful for any maſter.

Indeed!—perhaps you may meet a Petruchio, gentle Catherine, yet.

But no gentle Catherine will he find me, be⯑lieve it.—Catherine! why ſhe had not the ſpirit of a roaſted cheſnut—a few big words, an empty oath, and a ſeanty dinner, made her as ſubmiſſive as a ſpaniel. My fire will not be ſo ſoon extinguiſhed—it ſhall reſiſt big words, oaths, and ſtarving.

I believe ſo indeed; help the poor gentleman, I ſay, to whoſe fate you fall.

Don Caeſar, adieu! My commiſeration for your fate ſubdues the reſentment I ſhould otherwiſe feel at your endeavouring to deceive me into ſuch a marriage.

Marriage! oh mercy!—Is this Don Garcia?

Yes, termagant!

O, what a misfortune! Why did you not tell me it was the gentleman you deſign'd to marry me to? Oh, Sir! all that is paſt was in ſport; a contrivance be⯑tween my maid and me: I have no ſpirit at all—I am as patient as poverty.

This maſk ſits too ill on your features, fair lady: I have ſeen you without diſguiſe, and rejoice in your ignorance of my name, ſince, but for [14] that, my peaceful home might have become the ſeat f perpetual diſcord.

Aye, Sir, you would never have known what a quiet hour—

Impertinence! Indeed, Sir, I can be as gentle and forbearing as a pet lamb.

I cannot doubt it, Madam; the proofs of your placidity are very ſtriking—But, adieu! though I ſhall pray for your converſion, rather than have the honour of it—I'd turn Dominican, and condemn myſelf to perpe⯑tual celibacy.

Now, huſſey!—now, huſſey!—what do you expect?

Dear me! how can you be ſo unreaſonable! did ever daughter do more to oblige a father! I abſo⯑lutely begg'd the man to have me.

Yes, vixen! after you had made him deteſt ye; what, I ſuppoſe, he did not hit your fancy, madam; tho' there is not in all Spain a man of prettier converſation.

Yes, he has a very pretty kind of converſation; 'tis like a parentheſis.

Like a parentheſis!

Yes, it might be all left out, and never miſs'd. However, I thought him a modeſt kind of a well-meaning young man, and that he would make a pretty ſort of a huſband—for notwithſtanding his bluſtering, had I been his wife, in three months he ſhould have been as humble and complaiſant as—

Ay, there it is—there it is!—that ſpirit of yours, huſſey, you can neither conquer nor conceal; but I'll find a way to tame it, I'll warrant me.

Well, madam, I give you joy! had other ladies as much ſucceſs in getting lovers, as you have in getting rid of yours, what contented faces we ſhould ſee.

But to what purpoſe do I get rid of them, whilſt they riſe in ſucceſſion like monthly pinks? Was there ever any thing ſo provoking?—After ſome quiet, and believing the men had ceaſed to trouble themſelves about me, no leſs than two propoſals have been made to my inexorable fa⯑ther this very day—What will become of me?

What ſhou'd become of you? You'll chuſe one from the pair, I hope. Believe me, madam, the only way to get rid of the impertinence of lovers, is to take one, and make him a ſcare-crow to the reſt.

Oh, but I cannot!—Invention aſſiſt me this one day!

Upon my word, madam, invention owes you nothing; and I am afraid you can draw on that bank no longer.—You muſt truſt to your eſtabliſhed character of vixen.

But that won't frighten 'em all, you know, tho' it did its buſineſs with ſober Don Garcia. The brave Ge⯑neral Antonio would have made a property of me, in ſpite of every thing, had I not luckily diſcovered his antipathy to cats, and ſo ſcar'd the hero, by pretending an immoderate paſſion for young kittens.

Yes, but you was ſtill harder puſh'd by the Caſtilian Count, and his engrav'd genealogy from Noah.

Oh, he would have kept his poſt as immovably as the griffins at his gate, had I not very ſeriouſly imparted to him, that my mother's great uncle ſold oranges in Ar⯑ragon. [16] Ha! ha! ha! And my little delicate ſpark, who waſhes in roſe-water, and has his bed ſtrewed with violets, would never have diſmiſſed himſelf, hadſt thou not ſcented my mareſchal powder with aſſag foetida.

And pray, madam, if I may be ſo bold, who is the next gentleman?

Oh, Don Vincentio, who diſtracts every body with his ſkill in muſic. He ought to be married to a Viol de Gamba. I bleſs my ſtars I have never yet had a miſer in my liſt—on ſuch a character all art would be loſt, and nothing but an earthquake, to ſwallow up my eſtate, could ſave me.

Well, if ſome one did but know, how happy would ſome one be, that for his ſake—

Now, don't be impertinent, Minette. You have ſeveral times attempted to ſlide yourſelf into a ſecret, which I am reſolv'd to keep to myſelf. Continue faithful, and ſuppreſs your curioſity.

Suppreſs my curioſity, madam!—why, I am a chambermaid, and a ſorry one too, it ſhould ſeem, to have been in your confidence two years, and never have got the maſter-ſecret yet. I never was ſix weeks in a family before, but I knew every ſecret they had in it for three ge⯑nerations; aye, and I'll know this too, or I'll blow up all her plans, and declare to the world that ſhe is no more a vixen than other fine ladies—they have moſt of 'em a touch on't.

SCENE I.

NAY, Madam, you may as well ſtop here, for I'll follow you through every apartment, but I will be heard.

This inſolence is not to be endured; within my own walls to be thus—

The time has been, when within your walls I might be maſter.

Yes, you were then maſter of my heart, that gave you a right which—

You have now transferred to another.

Well, Sir!

"Well, Sir!"—Unbluſhing acknowledgment! Falſe, fickle woman!

Becauſe I have luckily got the ſtart of you; in a few weeks I ſhould have been the accuſer, and you the falſe and fickle.

And to ſecure yourſelf from that diſgrace, you prudently looked out in time for another lover.

I can pardon your ſneer, becauſe you are mor⯑tified.

Mortified!

Yes, mortified to the ſoul. Carlos! I know your ſex: the vaineſt female, in the hour of her exulta⯑tion and power, is ſtill out-done by man in vanity.—'Tis [18] more your ruling paſſion, than 'tis ours; and 'tis wounded vanity that makes you thus tremble with rage at being deſerted.

Madam! Madam!

This rage would have been all cool inſo⯑lence, had I waited for your change—the crime which now appears ſo black in me. Then, whilſt, with all my ſex's weakneſs, I had knelt at your feet, and reproached you only with my tears; how compoſed would have been your feelings.—Scarcely would you have deigned to form a phraſe of pity for me; perhaps have bid me forget a man no longer worthy my attachment, and recommended me to hartſhorn and my women.

Has any hour ſince I have firſt known you, given you cauſe for ſuch unjuſt—

Yes, every hour—Now, Carlos, I bring thee to the teſt!—You ſaw, you lik'd, you lov'd me; was there no fond truſting woman whom you deſerted to indulge the tranſient paſſion? Yes, one bleſt with beauty, gentleneſs and youth; one, who more than her own being lov'd thee, who made thee rich, and whom thou mad'ſt thy wife.

My wife!—here's a turn! So to revenge the quarrels of my wife—

No, do not miſtake me—what I have done was merely to indulge myſelf, without more regard to your feelings, than you had to her's.

And you dare avow to my face, that you have a paſſion for another?

I do, and—for I am above diſguiſe—I confeſs, ſo tender is my love for Florio, it has ſcarcely left a trace of that I once avow'd for Carlos.

Well, Madam, if I hear this without ſome ſudden vengeance on the tongue which ſpeaks it, thank the annihilation of that paſſion, whoſe remembrance is as dead in my boſom as in yours. Let us, however, part friends, and with a mutual acquittal of every obligation—ſo give up the ſettlement of that eſtate, which left me almoſt a beggar.

Give it up!—ha, ha!—no, Carlos, you conſign'd me that eſtate as a proof of love; do not ima⯑gine then, I'll give up the only part of our connection, of which I am not aſhamed.

Baſe woman! you know 'twas not a voluntary gift—after having in vain practis'd on my fondneſs, whilſt in a ſtate of intoxication, you prevailed on me to ſign the deed, which you had artfully prepar'd for the purpoſe—therefore, you muſt reſtore it.

Never, never.

Ruin is in the word!—Call it back, Madam, or I'll be reveng'd on thee in thy heart's deareſt object—thy minion Florio!—he ſhall not riot on my fortune.

Ha, ha, ha! Florio is ſafe—your lands are ſold, and in another country we ſhall enjoy the bleſſing of thy fond paſſion, whilſt that paſſion is indulging itſelf in hatred and execrations.

My vengeance ſhall firſt fall on her.

No, he ſhall be the firſt victim, or 'twill be incomplete.—Reduc'd to poverty, I cannot live;—Oh, folly! where are now all the gilded proſpects of my youth? Had I—but 'tis too late to look back,—remorſe attends the paſt, and ruin!—ruin waits me in the future!

SCENE II.

To be ſure—if my father ſhould enquire for me, tell him I am in Donna Victoria's apartment.—Smiling, I proteſt! my dear gloomy couſin, where have you purchaſed that ſun-ſhiny look?

It is but April ſunſhine, I fear; but who could reſiſt ſuch a temptation to ſmile? a letter from Donna Laura, my huſband's miſtreſs, ſtiling me her deareſt Florio! her life! her ſoul! and complaining of a twelve hours abſence, as the bittereſt misfortune.

Ha, ha, ha! moſt doughty Don! pray let us ſee you in your feather and doublet; as a Cavaleiro, it ſeems, you are formidable. So ſuddenly to rob your huſband of his charmer's heart! you muſt have us'd ſome witchery.

Yes, powerful witchery—the knowledge of my ſex. Oh! did the men but know us, as well as we do ourſelves;—but thank fate they do not, 'twould be dan⯑gerous.

What, I ſuppoſe, you prais'd her underſtanding, was captivated by her wit, and abſolutely ſtruck dumb by the amazing beauties of—her mind.

Oh, no,—that's the mode preſcribed by the Eſſayiſts on the female heart—ha, ha, ha!—Not a wo⯑man breathing, from fifteen to fifty, but would rather have a compliment to the tip of her ear, or the turn of her ancle, than a volume in praiſe of her intellects.

So flattery then, is your boaſted pill?

No, that's only the occaſional gilding; but 'tis in vain to attempt a deſcription of what changed its nature with every moment. I was now attentive—now gay—then tender—then careleſs. I ſtrove rather to convince her that I was charming, than that I myſelf was charm'd; and when I ſaw love's arrow quivering in her heart, inſtead of falling at her feet, ſung a triumphant air, and remem⯑ber'd a ſudden engagement.

Would you have done ſo, had you been a man?

Aſſuredly—knowing what I now do as a woman.

But can all this be worth while, merely to rival a ſickle huſband with one woman, whilſt he is ſet⯑ting his feather, perhaps, at half a ſcore others?

To rival him was not my firſt motive. The Portugueze robbed me of his heart; I concluded ſhe had faſcinations which nature had denied to me; it was im⯑poſſible to viſit her as a woman; I, therefore, aſſumed the Cavalier to ſtudy her, that I might, if poſſible, be to my Carlos, all he found in her.

Pretty humble creature!

In this adventure I learnt more than I expect⯑ed;—my (oh cruel!) my huſband has given this woman an eſtate, almoſt all that his diſſipations had left us.

Indeed!

To make him more culpable, it was my eſtate, it was that fortune which my laviſh love had made his, without ſecuring it to my children.

How could you be ſo improvident?

Alas! I truſted him with my heart, with my happineſs, without reſtriction. Should I have ſhewn a greater ſolicitude for any thing, than for theſe?

The event proves that you ſhould; but how can you be thus paſſive in your ſorrow? ſince I had aſ⯑ſum'd the man, I'd make him feel a man's reſentment for ſuch injuries.

Oh, Olivia! what reſentment can I ſhew to him I have vow'd to honour, and whom, both my duty and my heart compel me yet to love?

Why, really now, I think—poſitively, there's no thinking about it; 'tis among the arcana of the married life, I ſuppoſe.

You, who know me, can judge how I ſuffered in proſecuting my plan. I have thrown off the delicacy of ſex; I have worn the maſk of love to the deſtroyer of my peace—but the object is too great to be abandoned—nothing leſs than to ſave my huſband from ruin, and to reſtore him, again a lover, to my faithful boſom.

Well, I confeſs, Victoria, I hardly know whether moſt to blame or praiſe you; but, with the reſt of the world, I ſuppoſe, your ſucceſs will determine me.

Pray, Madam, are your wedding ſhoes ready?

Inſolence! . . . . I can ſcarcely ever keep up the vixen to this fellow.

You'll want them, Ma'am, to morrow morn⯑ing, that's all—ſo I came to prepare ye.

I want wedding ſhoes to-morrow! if you are kept on water gruel 'till I marry, that plump face of yours will be chap-fall'n, I believe.

Yes, truly, I believe ſo too. Lackaday, did you ſuppoſe I came to bring you news of your own wed⯑ding? no ſuch glad tidings for you, lady, believe me.—You married! I am ſure the man who ties himſelf to you, ought to be half a ſalamander, and able to live in fire.

What marriage then is it, you do me the honour to inform me of?

Why, your father's marriage. You'll have a mother-in-law to-morrow, and having, like a dutiful daughter, danced at the wedding, be immur'd in a con⯑vent for life.

Immur'd in a convent! then I'll raiſe ſedition in the ſiſterhood, depoſe the abbeſs, and turn the confeſ⯑ſor's chair to a go-cart.

So the threat of the mother-in-law, which I thought would be worſe than that of the abbeſs, does not frighten ye?

No, becauſe my father dares not give me one.—Marry, without my conſent! no, no, he'll never think of it, depend on't; however, leſt the fit ſhould grow ſtrong upon him, I'll go and adminiſter my volatiles to keep it under.

Adminiſter 'em cautiouſly then—too ſtrong a doſe of your volatiles would make the fit ſtubborn. Who'd think that pretty arch look belong'd to a termagant? what a pity! 'twould be worth a thouſand ducats to cure her.

Has Inis told you I wanted to converſe with you in private, Gaſper?

Oh, yes, madam, and I took particular notice that it was to be in private.—Sure, ſays I, Mrs. Inis, Madam Victoria has not taken a fancy to me, and is go⯑ing to break her mind.

Whimſical! ha, ha! ſuppoſe I ſhould, Gaſ⯑per?

Why, then, madam, I ſhould ſay fortune had uſed you dev'liſh ſcurvily, to give me a grey beard in a livery. I know well enough that ſome young ladies have given themſelves to grey beards in a gilded coach, and others have run away with a handſome youth in worſted lace; they each had their apology; but if you run away with me—pardon me, madam, I could not ſtand the ridicule.

Oh, very well; but if you refuſe to run away with me, will you do me another favour?

Any thing you'll order, madam, except danc⯑ing a fandango.

You have ſeen my rich old uncle in the coun⯑try?

What, Don Sancho, who, with two-thirds of a century in his face, affects the miſdemeanors of youth; hides his baldneſs with amber locks, and com⯑plains of the tooth-ache, to make you believe that the two rows of ivory he carries in his head, grew there.

Oh, you know him, I find; could you aſſume his character for an hour, and make love for him? you know it muſt be in the ſtile of King Roderigo the Firſt.

Hang it! I am rather too near his own age; to appear an old man with effect, one ſhould not be above twenty; 'tis always ſo on the ſtage.

Pho! you might paſs for Juan's grandſon.

Nay, if your ladyſhip condeſcends to flatter me, you have me.

Then ſollow me, for Don Caeſar, I hear, is approaching—in the garden I'll make you acquainted [25] with my plan, and impreſs on your mind every trait of my uncle's character. If you can hit him off, the arts of Laura ſhall be foil'd, and Carlos be again Victoria's.

No, no, 'tis too late—no coaxings; I am re⯑ſolv'd, I ſay.

But it is not too late, and you ſhan't be re⯑ſolv'd, I ſay. Indeed, now, I'll be upon my guard with the next Don—what's his name? not a trace of the Xan⯑tippe leſt.—I'll ſtudy to be charming.

Nay, you need not ſtudy it, you are always charming enough, if you would but hold your tongue.

Do you think ſo? then to the next lover I won't open my lips; I'll anſwer every thing he ſays with a ſmile, and if he aſks me to have him, drop a court'ſey of thankfulneſs.

Pſhaw! that's too much t'other way; you're always either above the mark or below it; you muſt talk, but talk with good humour. Can't you look gently and prettily, now, as I do? and ſay, "yes, Sir, and no, Sir; and 'tis very fine weather, Sir; and pray, Sir, were you at the ball laſt night? and I caught a ſad cold the other evening; and, bleſs me! I hear Lucinda has run away with her footman, and Don Philip has married his house⯑maid."—That's the way agreeable ladies talk, you never hear any thing elſe.

Very true; and you ſhall ſee me as agreeable as the beſt of 'em, if you won't give me a mother-in-law to ſnub me, and ſet me taſks, and to take up all the fine apartments, and ſend up your poor little Livy to lodge next the ſtars.

Ha,—if thou wert but always thus ſoft and good-humour'd, no mother-in-law in Spain, though ſhe brought the Caſtiles for her portion, ſhould have power to ſnub thee. But, Livy, the trial's at hand, for at this moment do I expect Don Vincentio to viſit you. He is but juſt returned from England, and, pro⯑bably, has yet heard only of your beauty and fortune; I hope it is not from you he will learn the other part of your character.

This moment expect him! two new lovers in a day?

Beginning already, as I hope to live; aye, I ſee 'tis in vain; I'll ſend him an excuſe, and marry Mar⯑cella before night.

Oh, no! upon my obedience, I promiſe to be juſt the ſoft civil creature you have deſcribed.

Don Vincentio is below, Sir.

I'll wait upon him—well, go and collect all your ſmiles and your ſimpers, and remember all I have ſaid to you;—be gentle, and talk pretty little ſmall talk, d'ye hear, and if you pleaſe him, you ſhall have the por⯑tion of a Dutch burgomaſter's daughter, and the pin-money of a princeſs, you jade you. I think at laſt I have done it; the fear of this mother-in-law will keep down the fiend in her, if any thing can.

Hah! my poor father, your anxieties will never end 'till you bring Don Julio:—Command me to ſacrifice my petulence, my liberty to him, and Iphigenia herſelf, could not be more obedient. But what ſhall I do with this Vincentio?—I fear he is ſo perfectly harmo⯑niz'd, that to put him in an ill temper will be impracti⯑cable.—I [27] muſt try, however; if 'tis poſſible to find a diſ⯑cord in him, I'll touch the ſtring.

Preſto, preſto, Signor! where is the Olivia?—not a moment to ſpare. I left off in all the fury of com⯑poſition; minums and crotchets have been battling it through my head the whole day, and trying a ſemibreve in G ſharp, has made me as flat as double F.

Sharp and flat!—trying a ſemibreve!—oh—gad, Sir! I had like not to have underſtood you; but a ſemibreve is ſomething of a demi-culverin, I take it; and you have been practiſing the art military.

Art military!—what, Sir! are you unacquaint⯑ed with muſic?

Muſic! oh I aſk pardon; then you are fond of muſic—'ware of diſcords.

Fond of it! devoted to it.—I compos'd a thing to-day in all the guſto of Sachini and the ſweetneſs of Gluck. But this recrcant finger fails me in compoſing a paſſage in E, octave: if it does not gain more elaſtic vigour in a week, I ſhall be tempted to have it amputated, and ſupply the ſhake with a ſpring.

Mercy! amputate a finger to ſupply a ſhake!

Oh, that's a trifle in the road to reputation—to be talk'd of is the ſummum bonum of this life.—A young man of rank ſhou'd not glide through the world without a diſtinguiſh'd rage, or, as they call it in England—a hobby horſe!

A hobby horſe!

Yes; that is, every man of figure determines on ſetting out in life, in that land of liberty, in what line to ruin himſelf; and that choice is called his hobby horſe. One, makes the turf his ſcene of action—another drives about tall phaetons to peep into their neighbour's garret windows; and a third rides his hobby horſe in parliament, where it jerks him ſometimes on one ſide, and ſometimes on the other; ſometimes in, and ſometimes out, 'till at length he is jerk'd out of his honeſty, and his conſtituents out of their freedom.

Aye!—Well, 'tis a wonder that with ſuch ſort of hobby horſes as theſe they ſhould ſtill outride all the world to the goal of glory. I wiſh we had a few of 'em to jerk Spain into ſome conſideration.

This is all cantable; nothing to do with the ſub⯑ject of the piece, which is Donna Olivia;—pray give me the key note to her heart.

Upon my word, Signor—to ſpeak in your own phraſe—I believe that note has never yet been ſounded.—Ah! here ſhe comes! look at her.—Isn't ſhe a charm⯑ing girl?

Touching! Muſical I'll be ſworn! her very air is harmonious!

I wiſh thou may'ſt find her tongue ſo.

Daughter, receive Don Vincentio—his rank, for⯑tune and merit, entitle him to be the heireſs of a grandee; but he is contented to become my ſon-in-law, if you can pleaſe him.

Pleaſe me! ſhe entrances me! Her preſence [29] thrills me like a cadenza of Pachierotti's, and every nerve vibrates to the muſic of her looks.

Donna Olivia, will you be contented to receive me as a lover?

Yes, Sir—No, Sir.

Yes, Sir; no, Sir! bewitching timidity!

Yes, Sir, ſhe's remarkably timid.—She's in the right cue, I ſee.

'Tis clear you have never travell'd—I ſhall be delighted to ſhew you England.—You will there ſee how entirely timidity is baniſh'd the ſex. You muſt affect a mark'd character, and maintain it at all hazards.

'Tis a very fine day, Sir.

Madam!

I caught a ſad cold the other evening.—Pray was you at the ball laſt night?

What ball, fair lady?

Bleſs me! they ſay Lucinda has run away with her footman, and Don Philip has married his houſe-maid.—Now am I not very agreeable?

Oh, ſuch perverſe obedience!

Really, Madam, I have not the honour to know Don Philip and Lucinda—nor am I happy enough en⯑tirely to comprehend you.

No! I only meant to be agreeable—but per⯑haps you have no taſte for pretty little ſmall talk?

Pretty little ſmall talk!

A mark'd character you admire; ſo do I; I doat on it.—I wou'd not reſemble the reſt of the world in any thing.

My taſte to the fiftieth part of a crotchet!—We ſhall agree admirably when we are married.

And that will be unlike the reſt of the world, and therefore charming.

It will do! I have hit her humour at laſt—Why did'nt this young dog offer himſelf before?

I believe I have the honour to carry my taſte that way farther than you, Don Vincentio. Pray now, what is your uſual ſtile in living?

My winters I ſpend in Madrid, as other people do. My ſummers I drawl through at my caſtle—

As other people do!—and yet you pretend to taſte and ſingularity, ha! ha! ha! Good Don Vin⯑centio, never talk of a mark'd character again.—Go into the country in July to ſmell roſes and woodbines, when every body regales on their fragrance! Now I wou'd ruſti⯑cate only in winter, and my bleak caſtle ſhou'd be deco⯑rated with verdure and flowers, amidſt the ſoft zephyrs of December.

Oh, ſhe'll go too far!

On the leafleſs trees I wou'd hang green branches—the labour of ſilk worms, and therefore natural; whilſt my roſe ſhrubs and myrtles ſhou'd be ſcented by the firſt perfumers in Italy—Unnatural indeed, but therefore ſingular and ſtriking.

Oh, charming!—You beat me where I thought myſelf the ſtrongeſt.—Wou'd they but eſtabliſh newſ⯑papers here, to paragraph our ſingularities, we ſhou'd be the moſt envied couple in Spain.

By St. Anthony, he is as mad as ſhe is.

What ſay you, Don Caeſar? Olivia and her winter garden, and I and my muſic.

Muſic, did you ſay! Muſic! I am paſſionately fond of that!

She has ſav'd my life—I thought ſhe was go⯑ing to knock down his hobby horſe.

You enchant me! I have the fineſt band in Madrid—My firſt violin draws a longer bow than Giar⯑dini; my clarinets, my viol de gamba—Oh you ſhall have ſuch concerts!

Concerts! Pardon me there—My paſſion is a ſingle inſtrument.

That's carrying ſingularity very far indeed! I love a craſh; ſo does every body of taſte.

But my taſte isn't like every body's—my nerves are ſo particularly fine, that more than one inſtrument overpowers them.

Pray tell me the name of that one: I am ſure it muſt be the moſt elegant and captivating in the world.—I am impatient to know it.—We'll have no other inſtrument in Spain, and I will ſtudy to become its maſter, that I may woo you with its muſic. Charming Olivia! tell me, is it a harpſichord? a piano ſorte? a pentachord? a harp?

You have it—you have it—a harp—yes, a Jew's harp, is to me the only inſtrument.—Are you not charm'd with the delightful h—u—m of its baſe! running on the ear like the diſtant rumble of a ſtate coach? It preſents the idea of vaſtneſs and importance to the mind. The moment you are its maſter—I'll give you my hand.

Da capo, Madam, da capo! a Jew's harp!!

Bleſs me, Sir, don't I tell you ſo? Violins chill me—clarinets by ſympathy hurt my lungs; and, in⯑ſtead [32] of maintaining a band under my roof, I wou'd not keep a ſervant who knew a baſſoon from a flute, or could tell whether he heard a jigg or a canzonetta.

Oh thou perverſe one; you know you love con⯑certs—you know you do!

I deteſt 'em! It's vulgar cuſtom that attaches people to the ſound of fifty different inſtruments at once; 'twould be as well to talk on the ſame ſubject in fifty differ⯑ent tongues. A band! 'tis a mere olio of ſound; I'd ra⯑ther liſten to a three-ſtring'd guittar, ſerenading a ſempſ⯑treſs in ſome neighbouring garret.

Oh you!—Don Vincentio, this is nothing but perverſeneſs—wicked perverſeneſs.—Huſſey!—didn't you ſhake when you mention'd a garret? didn't bread and water and a ſtep mother come into your head at the ſame time?

Piano, piano, good Sir! Spare yourſelf all farther trouble. Should the Princeſs of Guzzarat, and all her diamond mines, offer themſelves, I wou'd not accept them in lieu of my band—a band that has half ruined me to collect.—I wou'd have allowed Donna Olivia a bloom⯑ing garden in winter; I wou'd even have procur'd barren⯑neſs and ſnow for her in the dog-days;—but—to have my band inſulted!—to have my knowledge in muſic ſlighted!—to be rous'd from all the energies of compoſition by the drone of a Jew's harp! I cannot breathe under the idea.

Then—then you refuſe her, Sir?

I cannot uſe ſo harſh a word—I take my leave of the lady—Adieu, Madam—I leave you to enjoy your ſolos, whilſt I fly to the raptures of a craſh.

Mercy! that ſilent anger is terrifying—I read a young mother-in-law, and an old lady abbeſs, in every line of his face.

Well, you heard the whole, I ſuppoſe—heard poor unhappy me ſcorn'd and rejected.

I heard you in imminent danger; and expected Signor Da Capo wou'd have ſnapp'd you up, in ſpite of caprice and extravagance.

Oh they charm'd inſtead of ſcaring him.—I ſoon found that my only chance was to fall acroſs his ca⯑price.—Where is the philoſopher who cou'd withſtand that?

But what, my good couſin, does all this tend to?

I dare ſay you can gueſs.—Penelope had never cheated her lovers with a never-ending web, had ſhe not had an Ulyſſes.

An Ulyſſes! what are you then married?

O, no, not yet!—but, believe me, my deſign is not to lead apes; nor is my heart an icicle.—If you chooſe to know more, put on your veil, and ſlip with me through the garden to the Prado.

I can't indeed.—I am this moment going to dreſs en homme, to viſit the impatient Portugueſe.

Send an excuſe—for poſitively you go with me. Heaven and earth! I am going to meet a man!—whom I have been fool enough to dream and think of theſe two years, and I don't know that ever he thought of me in his life.

Two years diſcovering that?

He has been abroad. The only time I ever ſaw him was at the Dutcheſs of Medina's—there were a thouſand people; and he was ſo elegant, ſo careleſs, ſo handſome!—In a word, though he ſet off for France the next morning, by ſome witchcraft or other, he has been before my eyes ever ſince.

Was the impreſſion mutual?

He hardly notic'd me—I was then a baſhful thing, juſt out of a convent, and ſhrunk from obſerva⯑tion.

Why, I thought you were going to meet him?

To be ſure—I ſent him a command this morning to be at the Prado. I am determined to find out if his heart is engaged, and if it is—

You'll croſs your arms, and crown your brow with willows.

No, poſitively, not whilſt we have myrtles.—I wou'd prefer Julio, 'tis true, to all his ſex; but if he is ſtupid enough to be inſenſible to me, I ſhan't for that rea⯑ſon pine like a girl, on chalk and oatmeal.—No, no; in that caſe, I ſhall form a new plan, and treat my future lovers with more civility.

You are the only woman in love, I ever heard talk reaſonably.

Well, prepare for the Prado, and I'll give you a leſſon againſt your days of widowhood. Don't you wiſh this the moment, Victoria? A pretty widow at four-and-twenty [35] has more ſubjects and a wider empire than the firſt monarch upon earth.—I long to ſee you in your weeds.

Never may you ſee them! Oh, Olivia!—my happineſs, my life, depend on my huſband. The fond hope of ſtill being united to him, gives me ſpirits in my affliction, and enables me to ſupport even the period of his neglect, with patience.

SCENE I.

YES, yes, bar the gate faſt, Cerberus, leſt ſome other curious traveller ſhould ſtumble on your confines.—If ever I am ſo caught again—

Don Garcia, never make love to a woman in a veil.

Why ſo, prithee? Veils and ſecrecy are the chief ingredients in a Spaniſh amour; but in two years, Julio, thou art grown abſolutely French.

That may be; but if ever I truſt to a veil again, may no lovely, blooming beauty ever truſt me.—Why doſt know I have been an hour at the feet of a crea⯑ture whoſe firſt birth-day muſt have been kept the latter end of the laſt century, and whoſe trembling, weak voice, I miſtook for the timid cadence of baſhful fifteen!

Ha, ha, ha!—What a happineſs to have ſeen thee in thy raptures, petitioning for half a glance only, of the charms the envious veil conceal'd.

Yes; and when ſhe unveil'd her Gothic counte⯑nance, to render the thing compleatly ridiculous, ſhe be⯑gan moralizing; and poſitively would not let me out of the ſnare, 'till I had perſuaded her ſhe had work'd a con⯑verſion, [37] and that I'd never make love—but in an honeſt way again.

Oh, that honeſt way of love-making is de⯑lightful, to be ſure. I had a doſe of it this morning; but happily the ladies have not yet learnt to veil their tempers, though they have their faces.

Julio! Garcia! congratulate me!—Such an eſcape!

What have you eſcap'd?

Matrimony.

Nay, then our congratulations may be mu⯑tual.—I have had a matrimonial eſcape too, this very day. I was almoſt on the brink of the ceremony with the verieſt Xantippe!

Oh, that was not my caſe—mine was a ſweet creature, all elegance, all life.

Then where's the cauſe of congratulation?

Cauſe—why ſhe's ignorant of muſic! prefers a jig to a canzonetta, and a Jew's harp to a pentachord.

Jews harp!—Pho, prithee.

Had my nymph no other fault, I would pardon that, for ſhe was lovely and rich.

Mine too was lovely and rich, and, I'll be ſworn, as ignorant of ſcolding as of the gama;—but not to know muſic!—

Gentle, lovely, and rich—and ignorant only of muſic?

A venial crime indeed! if the ſweet creature will marry me, ſhe ſhall carry a Jew's harp always in he train, as a Scotch laird does his bagpipes. I wiſh you'd give me your intereſt.

Oh, moſt willingly, if thou haſt ſo groſs an in⯑clination;—I'll name thee as a dull-ſoul'd, largo fellow, to her father, Don Caeſar.

Caeſar! what Don Caeſar?

De Zuniga.

Impoſſible!

Oh, I'll anſwer for her mother. So much is De Zuniga her father, that he does not know a ſemibreve from a culverin.

The name of the lady?

Olivia.

Why you muſt be mad—that's my termagant.

Termagant!—ha! ha! ha! Thou haſt cer⯑tainly ſome vixen of a miſtreſs, who infects thy ears to⯑wards the whole ſex. Olivia is timid and elegant.

By Juno, there never exiſted ſuch a ſcold.

By Orpheus, there never was a gayer temper'd creature—Spirit enough to be charming, that's all. If ſhe lov'd harmony, I'd marry her to morrow.

Ha, ha! what a ridiculous jangle! 'Tis evi⯑dent you ſpeak of two different women.

I ſpeak of Donna Olivio, heireſs to Don Cae⯑ſar de Zuniga.

I ſpeak of the heireſs of Dou Caeſar de Zuniga, who is called Donna Olivia.

Sir, I perceive you mean to inſult me.

Your perceptions are very rapid, Sir—but if you chuſe to think ſo, I'll ſettle that point with you immedi⯑ately—But, for fear of conſequences, I'll fly home, and add the laſt bar to my concerto, and then meet you where you pleaſe.

Pho! this is evidently miſapprehenſion.—To clear the matter up, I'll viſit the lady—if you'll introduce me, Vincentio;—but you ſhall both promiſe to be go⯑vern'd in this diſpute by my deciſion.

I'll introduce you with joy, if you'll try to per⯑ſuade her of the neceſſity of muſic, and the charms of har⯑mony.

Yes, ſhe needs that—You'll find her all jar and diſcord.

Come, no more Garcia—thou art but a ſort of a male vixen thyſelf.—Melodious Vincentio, when ſhall I expect you?

This evening.

Not this evening; I have engag'd to meet a goldfinch in a grove, then I ſhall have muſic, you rogue!

It won't ſing at night.

Then I'll talk to it till the morning, and hear it pour out its matins to the riſing ſun.—Call on me to-morrow, I'll then attend you to Donna Olivia, and de⯑clare faithfully the impreſſion her character makes on me.—Come, Garcia, I muſt not leave you together, leſt his crotchets and your minums, ſhould fall into a craſh of diſ⯑cords.

All hail to the powers of Burgundy! Three flaſks to my own ſhare.—What ſorrows can ſtand again three flaſks of Burgundy? I was a damn'd melanchol ſellow this morning, going to ſhoot myſelf to get rid of my troubles.—Where are my troubles now? Gone to the moon to look for my wits; and there, I hope, they'll re⯑main [40] together, if one cannot come back without t'other.—But where is this indolent dog, Julio? He fit to receive appointments from ladies! Sure I have not miſs'd the hour—No—but ſeven yet—

—Seven's the hour, by all the joys of Burgundy! The rogue muſt be here—let's reconnoitre.

Poſitively, mine's a pretty ſpark, to let me be firſt at the place of appointment. I have half reſolv'd to go home again to puniſh him.

I'll anſwer for its being but half a reſolution—to make it entire would be to puniſh yourſelf.—There's a ſolitary man—Is not that he?

I think not.—If he'd pleaſe to turn his face this way—

That's impoſſible, while the loadſtone is the other way.—He is looking at the woman in the next walk. Can't you diſturb him?

Oh! a frightful frog!

Heav'ns, 'tis my huſband.

Your huſband! Is that Don Carlos?

It is indeed.

Why really, now I ſee the man, I don't won⯑der that you are in no hurry for your weeds.—He is moving towards us.

I cannot ſpeak to him, and yet my ſoul flies to meet him.

Pray, lady, what occaſioned that pretty ſcream? I ſhrewdly ſuſpect it was a trap.

A trap! Ha! ha! ha!—a trap for you!

Why not, Madam?—Zounds, a man ſix feet high, and three flaſks of Burgundy in his head, is worth laying a trap for.

Yes, unleſs he happens to be trapp'd before.—'Tis about two years ſince you was caught, I take it—Do keep farther off!—Odious! a married man!

The devil! Is it poſted under every ſaint in the ſtreet, that I am a married man?

No, you carry the marks about you; that rue⯑ful phiz could never belong to a batchelor.—Beſides, there's an odd appearance on your temples—does your hat ſit eaſily?

By all the thorns of matrimony, if—

Poor man! how natural to ſwear by what one feels—but why were you in ſuch haſte to gather the thorns of matrimony? Bleſs us! had you but look'd about you a little, what a market might have been made of that fine, proper promiſing perſon of yours—

Confound thee, confound thee! If thou art a wife, may thy huſband plague thee with jealouſies, and thou never be able to give him cauſe for them; and if thou art a maid, may'ſt thou be an old one!

Oh, Julio, look not that way; there's a tongue will ſtun thee.

Heav'n be prais'd! I love female prattle. A woman's tongue can never ſcare me.—Which of theſe two goldfinches makes the muſic?

Oh, this is as ſilent as a turtle—

only coos now and then.—Perhaps you don't hate a married man, ſweet one?

You gueſs right; I love a married man.

Hah, ſay'ſt thou ſo! wilt thou love me?

Will you let me?

Let thee, my charmer! how I'll cheriſh thee for't.—What would I not give for thy heart!

I demand a price that, perhaps, you cannot give—I aſk unbounded love; but you have a wife.

And, therefore, the readier to love every other woman;—'tis in your favour child.

Will you love me ever?

Ever! yes ever, 'till we find each other dull com⯑pany, and yawn, and talk of our neighbours for amuſement.

Farewell! I ſuſpected you to be a bad chap⯑man, and that you would not reach my terms.

Nay, I'll come to your terms if I can;—but move this way;—I am fearful of that wood-pecker at your elbow—ſhould ſhe begin again, her noiſe will ſcare all the pretty loves that are playing about my heart. Don't turn your head towards them; if you like to liſten to love tales, you'll meet fond pairs enough in this walk.

I really believe, though you deny it, that you are my deſtiny—that is, you fated me hither.—See, is not this your mandate?

Oh, delightful! the ſcrawl of ſome chamber⯑maid, or, perhaps, of your valet to give you an air—what is it ſigned? Marriatornes? Tomaſa? Sancha?

Nay, now I am convinced the letter is yours, ſince you abuſe it; ſo you may as well confeſs.

Suppoſe I ſhould, you can't be ſure that I do not deceive you.

True; but there is one point in which I have made a vow not to be deceived; therefore, the prelimi⯑nary is, that you throw off your veil.

My veil!

Poſitively! if you reject this article, our nego⯑ciation ends.

You have no right to offer articles, unleſs you own yourſelf conquered.

I own myſelf willing to be conquer'd, and have, therefore, a right to make the beſt terms I can.—Do you accede to the demand?

Certainly not.

You had better.

I proteſt I will not.

My life upon't I make you. Why, madam, how abſurd this is—'tis reducing us to the ſitua⯑tion of Pyramus and Thiſbe, talking through a wall;—yet 'tis of no conſequence, for I know your features, as well as though I ſaw 'em.

How can that be?

I judge of what you hide, by what I ſee—I could draw your picture.

Charming! pray begin the portrait.

Imprimis, a broad high forehead, rounded at the top, like an old-faſhion'd gateway.

Oh, horrid!

Little grey eyes, a ſharp noſe, and hair, the colour of ruſty prunella.

Odious!

Pale cheeks, thin lips, and—

Hold, hold, thou villifier.

There! yes, kneel in contrition for your malicious libel.

Say rather, in adoration.—What a charming creature!

So, now for lies on the other ſide.

A forehead form'd by the Graces; hair, which Cupid would ſteal for his bow ſtrings, were he not engag'd in ſhooting through thoſe ſparkling hazel circlets, which nature has given you for eyes; lips! that 'twere a ſin to call ſo—they are freſh gather'd roſe leaves, with the fra⯑grant morning dew, ſtill hanging on their rounded ſurface.

Is that extemporaneous, or ready cut, for every woman who takes off her veil to you.

I believe 'tis not extemporaneous, for nature, when ſhe finiſh'd you, form'd the ſentiment in my heart, and there it has been hid, 'till you, for whom it was form'd, called it into words.

Suppoſe I ſhould underſtand, from all this, that you have a mind to be in love with me; wouldn't you be finely caught?

Charmingly caught! if you'll let me under⯑ſtand, at the ſame time, that you have a mind to be in love with me.

In love with a man! heavens! I never lov'd any thing but a ſquirrel!

Make me your ſquirrel—I'll put on your chain, and gambol and play for ever at your ſide.

But ſuppoſe you ſhould have a mind to break the chain?

Then looſen it; for, if once that humour ſeizes me, reſtraint won't cure it.—Let me ſpring and bound at liberty, and when I return to my lovely miſtreſs, tired of all but her, faſten me again to your girdle, and kiſs me while you chide,

Your ſervant—to encourage you to leave me again.

No, to make returning to you, the ſtrongeſt attraction of my life.—Why are you ſilent?

I am debating whether to be pleaſed or diſ⯑pleaſed at what you have ſaid.

Well?

You ſhall know when I have determined. My friend and yours are approaching this way, and they muſt not be interrupted.

'Twou'd be barbarous—we'll retire as far off as you pleaſe.

But we retire ſeparately, Sir,—that lady is a woman of honour, and this moment of the higheſt im⯑portance to her. You may, however, conduct me to the gate, on condition that you leave me inſtantly.

Leave her inſtantly—oh, then I know my cue.

My wife!

Oh, heavens! I will veil myſelf again. I will hide my face for ever from you, if you will ſtill feaſt my ears with thoſe ſoft vows, which a moment ſince you poured forth ſo eagerly.

My wife!—making love to my own wife!

Why ſhould one of the deareſt moments of my life, be to you ſo diſpleaſing.

So, I am caught in this ſnare, by way of agreeable ſurprize, I ſuppoſe.

Wou'd you cou'd think it ſo.

No, madam! by heav'n 'tis a ſurprize fatal to every hope with which you may have flattered yourſelf.—What am I to be followed, haunted, watched?

Not to upbraid you.—I follow'd you, becauſe [46] my caſtle without you ſeem'd a dreary deſart.—Indeed, I will never upbraid you.

Generous aſſurance!—never upbraid me—no by heavens, I'll take care you never ſhall.—She has touch'd my ſoul, but I dare not yield to the impreſſion.—Her ſoftneſs is worſe than death to me.

Would I could find words to pleaſe you!

You cannot; therefore leave me, or ſuffer me to go without attempting to follow me.

Is it poſſible yoo can be ſo barbarous?

Do not expoſtulate; your firſt vow'd duty is obedience—that word ſo grating to your ſex.

To me it was never grating—to obey you has been my joy; even now I will not diſpute your will, though I feel, for the firſt time, obedience hateful.

Oh, Carlos! my dear Carlos! I go, but my ſoul remains with you.

Oh, horrible! had I not taken this harſh mea⯑ſure, I muſt have kill'd myſelf, for how could I tell her that I have made her a beggar? better ſhe ſhould hate, deteſt me! than that my tenderneſs ſhould give her a proſpect of felicity, which now ſhe can never taſte.—Oh, wine-created ſpirit! Where art thou now? Madneſs, return to me again; for reaſon preſents me nothing but deſpair.

Carlos, who the devil can they be? my charming little witch was inflexible.—I hope yours has been more communicative.

Folly!—Nonſenſe!

Folly!—Nonſenſe! What, a pretty woman's ſmile! ha, ha, ha! upon my ſoul it has more perſuaſion, and, conſequently, more reaſon, than a logical diſquiſition [47] —but theſe married fellows have neither taſte nor joy.—Humph—ſuppoſe my fair one ſhould want to debaſe me into ſuch an animal;—ſhe can't have ſo much villainy in her diſpoſition: and yet, if ſhe ſhould? pho! it won't bear thinking about.—If I do ſo mad a thing, it muſt be as cowards fight, without daring to reflect on the danger.

Well, Don Vaſquez, and a—you—then I ſay, you have a mind that I ſhould marry your daughter?

It is ſufficient, Signor, that you have ſignified to us your intention—my daughter ſhall prove her grati⯑tude, in her attention to your felicity.

Egad! now it comes to the puſh!

hem, hem!—but juſt nineteen, you ſay.

Exactly, the eleventh of laſt month.

Pity it was not twenty.

Why a year can make no difference, I ſhould think.

O, yes it does; a year's great deal;—they are ſo ſkittiſh at nineteen.

Thoſe who are ſkittiſh at nineteen, I fear, you won't find much mended at twenty. Marcella is very grave, and a pretty little, plump, fair—

Aye, fair, again! pity ſhe isn't brown or olive—I like your olives.

Brown and olive! you are very whimſical, my old friend.

Why theſe fair girls are ſo ſtared at by the men, and the young fellows, now-a-days, have a damn'd im⯑pudent [48] ſtare with them,—'tis very abaſhing to a woman—very diſtreſſing!

Yes, ſo it is; but happily their diſtreſs is of that nature that it generally goes off in a ſimper. But come, I'll ſend Marcella to you, and ſhe will—

No, no, ſtay my good friend.

You are in a violent hurry.

Why, truly, Signor, at our time of life, when we determine to marry, we have no time to loſe.

Why, that's very true, and ſo—oh! St. An⯑thony, now it comes to the point—but there can be no harm in looking at her—a look won't bind us for better for worſe.

Well then—if you have a mind, I ſay, you may let me ſee her.

Aye, here ſhe comes—I hear her—trip, trip, trip! I don't like that ſtep. A woman ſhould always tread ſteadily, with dignity, it awes the men.

There, Marcella, behold your future huſ⯑band; and remember that your kindneſs to him, will be the ſtandard of your duty to me.

Oh, heavens!

Somehow I am afraid to look round.

Surely he does not know that I am here!

So—ſhe knows how to give an item, I find.

Pray, Signor, have you any commands for me?

Hum!—not non-plus'd at all.

Oh! that eye, I don't like that eye.

My father commanded me—

Yes, I know—I know.

Why, now I look again, there is a ſort of a modeſt.—Oh, that ſmile! that ſmile will never do.

I underſtand, Signor, that you have demanded my hand in marriage.

Upon my word, plump to the point!

Yes, I did a ſort of—I can't ſay but that I did—

I am not inſenſible of the honour you do me, Sir, but—but—

But!—What don't you like the thoughts of the match?

Oh, yes, Sir, yes—exceedingly. I dare not ſay no.

Oh, you do—exceedingly! What, I ſuppoſe, child, your head is full of jewels, and finery, and equi⯑page?

No indeed, Sir.

No, what then? what ſort of a life do you expect to lead when you are my wife? what pleaſures d'ye look forward to?

None!

Hey!

I ſhall obey my father, Sir; I ſhall marry you; but I ſhall be moſt wretched!

Indeed!

There is not a fate I would not prefer;—but pardon me!

Go on, go on, I never was better pleas'd

Pleas'd at my reluctance!

Never, never better pleas'd in my life;—ſo you had really now, you young baggage, rather have me for a grandfather than a huſband?

Forgive my frankneſs, Sir,—a thouſand times!

My dear girl, let me kiſs your hand.—Egad! you've let me off charmingly. I was frightened out of my wits leſt you ſhould have taken as violent an inclination to the match, as your father has.

Dear Sir, you charm me.

But hark ye;—you'll certainly incur your father's anger, if I don't take the refuſal entirely on my⯑ſelf, which I will do, if you'll only aſſiſt me in a little buſineſs I have in hand.

Any thing to ſhew my gratitude.

You muſt know, I can't get my daughter to marry—there's nothing on earth will drive her to it, but the dread of a mother in-law. Now, if you will let it appear to her, that you and I are driving to the goal of matrimony; I believe it will do—what ſay you? ſhall we be lovers in play?

If you are ſure it will be only in play.

Oh, my life upon't—but we muſt be very fond, you know.

To be ſure—exceedingly tender; ha, ha, ha!

You muſt ſmile upon me now and then roguiſhly; and ſlide your hand into mine, when you are ſure ſhe ſecs you, and let me pat your cheek, and—

Oh, no farther pray—that will be quite ſuſ⯑ſicient.

Gad, I begin to take a fancy to your rogue's face, now I'm in no danger—mayn't we—mayn't we ſa⯑lute ſometimes, it will ſeem infinitely more natural.

Never; ſuch an attempt would make me ſly off at once.

Well, you muſt be lady governeſs in this bu⯑ſineſs.—I'll [51] go home now, and fret madam, about her young mother-in-law—By'e ſweeting!

By'e charmer!

Oh, bleſs its pretty eyes!

Bleſs its pretty ſpectacles! ha, ha, ha! enter into a league with a croſs old father againſt a daughter! why how could he ſuſpect me capable of ſo much trea⯑chery? I cou'd not anſwer it to my conſcience. No, no I'll acquaint Donna Olivia with the plot; and, as in duty bound, we'll turn our arms againſt Don Caeſar.

SCENE I.

WELL, Pedro! haſt thou ſeen Don Florio?

Yes, Donna.

How did he look when he read my letter?

Mortal well, I never ſee'd him look better—he'd got on a new cloak, and a—

Pho, blockhead! did he look pleas'd? did he kiſs my name? did he preſs the billet to his boſom with all the warmth of love?

No, he didn't warm it that way; but he did another, for he put it into the fire.

How!

Yes, and when I ſpoke, he ſtarted, for, I think, he had forgot that I was by—ſo, ſays he, go home and tell Donna Laura, I fly to her preſence.

Is it poſſible? ſo contemptuouſly deſtroy the letter in which my whole heart overflow'd with tender⯑neſs? in which my upbraidings were mingled with the moſt paſſionate love! But why do I queſtion it? has he ever treated me but with the moſt mortifying coldneſs, even whilſt he pretended to be ſenſible of my charms? I feel myſelf on the brink of hatred; and, by all the [53] agonies I have felt, ſhou'd that paſſion be once rous'd.—Oh, how▪ idly I talk! he is here; his very voice pierces my heart. I dare not meet his eye thus diſcompoſed.

I will inform my miſtreſs that you are here, Don Florio, I thought ſhe had been in this apartment.

Now muſt I, with a mind torn by anxities, once more aſſume the lover of my huſband's miſtreſs—of the woman who has robb'd me of his heart, and his chil⯑dren of their fortune. Sure my taſk is hard.—Oh, love! Oh, married love aſſiſt me! If I can, by any art, obtain from her that fatal deed, I ſhall ſave my little ones from ruin—and then—But I hear her ſtep—[agitated, preſſing her hand on her boſom]—There! I have hid my griefs within my heart, and now for all the impudence of an accompliſhed cavalier!

My lovely Laura!

That look ſpeaks Laura lov'd as well as lovely.

To be ſure! Petrarch immortaliz'd his Laura by his verſes, and mine ſhall be immortal in my paſſion.

I cannot conceive how you feed this immortal paſſion.

Oh, by thinking of you, and reading your letters, and—

My letters! how often do you read them?

A dozen times an hour; drink each dear line with my eyes, whilſt my lips drink chocolate; place them every night under my pillow, and—

In the morning fling them into the fire.

Madam!

Oh, Florio, how deceitful! I know not what inchantment binds me to thee.

Me! my dear! is all this to me?

Yes, ingrate, thee!

Poſitively, Laura, you have theſe extrava⯑gancies ſo often, I wonder my paſſion can ſtand them. To be plain, thoſe violences in your temper may make a pretty relief in the flat of matrimony, child, but they do not ſuit that ſtate of freedom which is neceſſary to my happineſs.—It was by ſuch deſtructive arts as theſe you cured Don Carlos of his love.

Cured Don Carlos! Oh, Florio! wer't thou but as he is!

Why, you don't pretend he loves you ſtill?

Yes, moſt ardently and truly.

Hah!

If thou would'ſt perſuade me that thy paſſion is real, borrow his words, his looks;—be a hypocrite one dear moment, and ſpeak to me in all the frenzy of that love, which warms the heart of Carlos.

The heart of Carlos!

Hah, that ſeem'd a jealous pang—it gives my hopes new life.

Yes, Florio, he, indeed, knows what it is to love.—For me be forſook a beauteous wife; nay, and with me he wou'd forſake his country.

Villain! Villain!

Nay, let not the thought diſtreſs you thus;—

I deſpiſe—he is the weakeſt of mankind.

'Tis falſe, madam, you cannot deſpiſe him—Carlos the weakeſt of mankind! heavens! what woman cou'd reſiſt him? Perſuaſion ſits on his tongue, and love, almighty love, triumphant in his eyes!

This is ſtrange; you ſpeak of your rival with the admiration of a miſtreſs.

Laura! it is the fate of jealouſy, as well as love, to ſee the charms of its object, increas'd and heigh⯑ten'd.—I am jealous,—jealous to diſtraction, of Don Carlos, and cannot taſte peace, unleſs you'll ſwear never to ſee him more.—How nearly had I been betray'd!

I ſwear, joyfully ſwear, never to behold or ſpeak to him again. When, dear youth! ſhall we retire to Portugal? we are not ſafe here.

You know I am not rich.—You muſt firſt ſell the lands my rival gave you.

'Tis done—I have found a purchaſer, and to-morrow the transfer will be finiſhed.

Ah! I have now then nothing to truſt to but the ingenuity of Gaſper.—There is reaſon to fear Don Carlos had no right in that eſtate, with which you ſuppoſed yourſelf endow'd.

No right! what can have given you thoſe ſuſ⯑picions?

A converſation with Juan his ſteward—who aſſures me that his maſter never had an eſtate in Leon.

Never! what not by marriage?

Juan ſays ſo.

My blood runs cold—can I have taken pains to deceive myſelf—cou'd I think ſo I ſhould be mad.

Theſe doubts may ſoon be annihilated; or con⯑firm'd [56] to certainty.—I have ſeen Don Sancho, the uncle of Victoria—he is now in Madrid—You have told me that he once profeſs'd a paſſion for you.

Oh, to exceſs; but at that time I had another object.

Have you convers'd with him much?

I never ſaw him nearer than from my Balcony, where he uſed to ogle me through a glaſs, ſuſpended by a ribbon, like an order of knighthood; he is weak enough to fancy it gives him an air of diſtinction, ha, ha! But where can I find him? I muſt ſee him.

Write him a billet, and I will ſend it to his lodgings.

Inſtantly.—Dear Florio, a new proſpect opens to me—Don Sancho is rich and generous; and, by playing on his paſſions, without yielding to them, his fortune may be a conſtant fund to us.—I'll dip my pen in flattery.

Baſe woman! how can I pity thee, or regret the ſteps which my duty obliges me to take? For my⯑ſelf, I wou'd not ſwerve from the niceſt line of rectitude, nor wear the ſhadow of deceit—But for my children!—Is there a parental heart that will not pardon me?

Well, here we are in private—what is this charming intelligence of which thou art ſo full this morn⯑ing?

Why, Ma'am, as I was in the balcony that overlooks Don Vaſquez's garden—Donna Marcella told [57] me, that Don Caeſar had laſt night been to pay her a viſit previous to their marriage, and—

Their marriage! How can you give me the intelligence with ſuch a look of joy? Their marriage!—what will become of me?

Dear, Ma'am! if you'll but have patience.—She ſays that Don Caeſar and ſhe are perfectly agreed—

Still with that ſmirking face—I can't have patience.

Then, Madam, if you won't let me tell the ſtory, pleaſe to read it—here's a letter from Donna Marcella.

Why did you not give it me at firſt?

Becauſe I did'nt like to be cut out of my ſtory. If orators were oblig'd to come to the point at once, mercy on us! what tropes and figures we ſhou'd loſe!

Oh, Minette! I give you leave to ſmirk again—liſten—

‘" I am more terrified at the idea of be⯑coming your father's wife, than you are in the expect⯑ation of a ſtep-mother; and Don Caeſar would be as loth as either of us.—He only means to frighten you into matrimony, and I have, on certain conditions, agreed to aſſiſt him; but whatever you may hear, or ſee, be aſſur'd that nothing is ſo impoſſible, as that he ſhou'd become the huſband of Donna Marcella."’ Oh delightful girl! how I love her for this!

Yes, Ma'am; and if you'd had patience, I ſhou'd have told you that ſhe's now here with Don Caeſar, in grave debate how to begin the attack, which muſt force you to take ſhelter in the arms of a huſband.

Ah, no matter how they begin it.—Let them [58] amuſe themſelves in raiſing batteries; my reſerv'd fire ſhall tumble them about their ears, in the moment my poor father is ſinging his Io's for victory.—But here come the lovers.—Well, I proteſt now, ſixteen and ſixty is a very comely ſight—'Tis contraſt gives effect to every thing—Lud! how my father ogles! I had no idea he was ſuch a ſort of man.—I am really afraid he isn't quite ſo good as he ſhou'd be.

H—um—Madam looks very placid; we ſhall diſcompoſe her, or I am miſtaken.

So, Olivia, here's Donna Marcella come to viſit you—though, as matters are, that reſpect was due from you.

I am ſenſible of the condeſcenſion—My dear Ma'am, how very good this is.

Yes, you'll think yourſelf wonderfully oblig'd, when you know all.

Pray, Donna Marcella, what do you think of theſe apartments? The furniture and decorations are my daughter's taſte; wou'd you wiſh them to remain, or will you give orders to have them chang'd?

Chang'd, undoubtedly; I can have nobody's taſte govern my apartments but my own.

Ah, that touches—See how ſhe looks.

They ſhall receive your orders.—You underſtand, I ſuppoſe, from this, that every thing is fix'd on between Donna Marcella and me?

Yes, Sir; I underſtand it perfectly, and it gives me infinite pleaſure.

Eh! pleaſure!

Entirely, Sir—

Tol-de-rol! Ah that won't do—that won't do.—You can't hide it.—You are frighten'd out of your wits at the thoughts of a mother-in-law—eſpecially a young, gay, handſome one.

Pardon me, Sir; the thought of a mother-in-law was indeed diſagreeable; but her being young and gay qualifies it.—I hope, Ma'am, you'll give us balls, and the moſt ſpirited parties—You can't think how ſtu⯑pid we have been.—My dear father hates thoſe things—but I hope now—

Hey, hey, hey! what's the meaning of all this? Why, huſſey, don't you know you'll have no apartment but the garret?

That will benefit my complexion, Sir, by mending my health. 'Tis charming to ſleep in an elevated ſituation.

Here! here's an obſtinate perverſe ſlut!

Bleſs me, Sir, are you angry that I look for⯑wards to your marriage without murmuring?

Yes, I am—yes, I am—you ought to murmur, and you ought to—to—to—

Dear me! I find love taken up late in life, has a bad effect on the temper—I wiſh, my dear papa, you had felt the influence of Donna Marcella's charms ſome⯑what ſooner.

You do! you do! why this muſt be all put on.—This can't be real.

Indeed, indeed it is; and I proteſt your en⯑gagement with this lady has given me more pleaſure than I have taſted ever ſince you began to teaze me about a huſ⯑band. You ſeem'd determin'd to have a marriage in the [60] family; and I hope now I ſhall live in quiet, with my dear, ſweet, young mother-in-law.

Oh—oh

Was there ever—She doesn't care for a mother-in-law!—Can't frighten her!

Sure, my fate is very peculiar; that being pleas'd with your choice, and ſubmitting with humble duty to your will, ſhou'd be the cauſe of offence.

Huſſey! I don't want you to be pleas'd with my choice—I don't want you to ſubmit with humble duty to my will—Where I do want you to ſubmit, you rebel—You are a—you are—But I'll mortify that wayward ſpirit yet.

Well, really, my maſter is in a pitcous paſſion—he ſeems more angry at your liking his marriage, than at your refuſing to be married yourſelf.—Wouldn't it have been better, Madam, to have affected diſcontent?

To what purpoſe? but to lay myſelf open to freſh ſolicitations, in order to get rid of the evil I pre⯑tended to dread! Bleſs us! nothing can be more eaſy than for my father to be gratified, if he were but lucky in the choice of a lover.

As much as to ſay, Madam, that there is—

Why, yes, "as much as to ſay"—I ſee you are reſolv'd to have my ſecret, Minette, and ſo—

There is a gentleman at the door, Madam, call'd Don Julio de Meleſſina. He waits on you from Don Vincentio.

Who? Don Julio! it cannot be—art thou [...]ure of his name?

The ſervant repeated it twice—He is in a fine carriage, and ſeems to be a nobleman.

Conduct him hither.

I am aſtoniſh'd, I cannot ſee him.—I wou'd not have him know the incognita to be Olivia for worlds!—There is but one way.

Minette, aſk no queſtions, but do as I order you—Receive Don Julio in my name; call yourſelf the heireſs of Don Caeſar, and on no account ſuffer him to believe that you are any thing elſe.

I am amaz'd and confus'd!—It is impoſſible that he can have diſcover'd me—Perhaps he comes with offers to my father—then my interview laſt night did not give him thoſe impreſſions I hop'd.—I am jealous of myſelf.—If it is ſo, his incognito ſhall never pardon a paſſion for the daughter of Don Caeſar.

So! then, this is ſome new lover whom ſhe is determined to diſguſt; and fancies that making me paſs for her, will compleat it. Perhaps her ladyſhip may be miſtaken, though.

Upon my word, a ſweet man! Oh, lud, my heart beats with the very idea of his making love to me, even though he takes me for another—Stay, I think he ſha'nt find me here—Standing in the middle of a room gives one's appearance no effect.—I'll enter upon him with an eaſy ſwim, or an engaging trip, or a—ſomething that ſhall ſtrike—the firſt glance is every thing.

Not here! The ridiculous diſpute between Garcia and Vincentio, gives me irreſiſtable curioſity—though, if ſhe is the character Garcia deſcribes, I expect [62] to be cuff'd for my impertinence—Here ſhe comes!—A pretty, little, ſmiling girl, 'faith, for a vixen.

Sir, your moſt obedient humble ſervant. You are Don Julio de Meleſſina. I am extremely glad to ſee you, Sir.

A very courteous reception!—You honour me infinitely, Madam—I muſt apologize for wait⯑ing on you without a better introduction—Don Vincentio promis'd to attend me, but a concert call'd him to another part of the town, at the moment I prepar'd to come hi⯑ther.

A concert—Yes, Sir, he is very fond of muſic.

He is, Madam:- You, I ſuppoſe, have a paſſion for that charming ſcience?

Oh, yes, I love it mightily.

This is lucky! I think I have heard Donna Olivia, that your taſte that way is peculiar; you are fond of a—ſaith I can hardly ſpeak it.

—of a—Jcw's harp.

A Jew's harp! Mercy! What do you think a perſon of my birth and figure, can have ſuch fancies as that? No, Sir, I love ſiddles, French horns, tabors, and all the chearful, noiſy inſtruments in the world.

Vincentio muſt have been mad; and I as mad as him to mention it. Then you are fond of concerts, Madam?

Doat on 'em! I wiſh he'd offer me a ticket.

Vincentio is clearly wrong.—Now to prove how far the other was right, in ſuppoſing her a vixen.

There is a grand public concert, Sir, to be to⯑morrow. Pray do you go?

I believe I ſhall have that pleaſure, Madam.

My father, Don Caeſar, won't let me purchaſe a ticket: I think it's very hard.

Pardon me, I think it's perfectly right.

Right! what to refuſe me a trifling expence, that would procure me a great pleaſure?

Yes, doubtleſs—The ladies are too fond of pleaſure.—I think Don Caeſar is exemplary.

Lord, Sir, you'd think it very hard if you were me, to be lock'd up all your life, and know nothing of the world but what you cou'd catch through the bars of your balcony.

Perhaps I might; but as a man, I am convinc'd 'tis right. Daughters and wives ſhould be equally excluded thoſe deſtructive haunts of diſſipation.—Let them keep to their embroidery, nor ever preſume to ſhew their faces but at their own fire ſides.—This will bring out the Xan⯑tippe, ſurely.

Well, Sir, I don't know—to be ſure, home, as you ſay, is the ſitteſt place for women.—For my part, I cou'd live for ever at home. I am determin'd he ſhall have his way—who knows what may happen.

By all the powers of caprice, Garcia is as wrong as the other!

I delight in nothing ſo much as in ſitting by my father, and hearing his tales of old times—and I fancy, when I have a huſband, I ſhall be more happy to ſit and liſten to his ſtories of preſent times.

Perhaps your huſband, fair lady, might not be [64] inclined ſo to amuſe you.—Men have a thouſand delights that call them abroad; and probably your chief amuſe⯑ments wou'd be counting the hours of his abſence, and giving a tear to each as it paſs'd.

Well, he ſhou'd never ſee 'em, however. I wou'd always ſmile when he enter'd, and if he ſound my eyes red, I'd ſay I had been weeping over the hiſtory of the unfortunate damſel, whoſe true love hung himſelf at ſea, and appear'd to her afterwards in a wet jacket.—Sure this will do.

I am every moment more aſtoniſh'd! Pray, Madam, permit me a queſtion—Are you really—yet I cannot doubt it—are you really Donna Olivia, the daughter of Don Caeſar, to whom Don Garcia and Don Vincentio, had lately the honour of paying their addreſſes?

Am I Donna Olivia! ha, ha, ha! what a queſ⯑tion! Pray, Sir is this my father's houſe?—are you Don Julio?

I beg your pardon; but, to confeſs, I had heard you deſcrib'd as a lady who had not quite ſo much ſweetneſs, and—

Oh, what you had heard that I was a termagant, I ſuppoſe—'Tis all ſlander, Sir—There is not in Ma⯑drid, though I ſay it, a ſweeter temper than my own; and though I have refus'd a good many lovers, yet if one was to offer himſelf, that I cou'd like—

You wou'd take pity, and reward his paſſion. Lovely Donna Olivia, how charming is this frankneſs!—'tis a little odd, though!

Why, I believe, I ſhou'd take pity, for it al⯑ways ſeem'd to me to be very hard-hearted to be cruel to [65] a lover that one likes, becauſe in that caſe one ſhou'd—a—You know, Sir, the ſooner the affair is over, the better for both parties.

What the deuce does ſhe mean?—Is this Gar⯑cia's ſour fruit?

Olivia!—Olivia!

Bleſs me, I hear my father! Now, Sir, I have a particular fancy that you ſhou'd not tell him, in this firſt viſit, your deſign.

Madam! my deſign!

Yes, that you will not ſpeak out, 'till we have had a little further converſation, which I'll take care to give you an opportunity for very ſoon.—He'll be here in a moment—Now, pray Don Julio, go—If he ſhou'd meet you, and aſk who you are, you can ſay that you are—you may ſay that you came on a viſit to my maid, you know.

I thank you, Madam—

—for my diſ⯑miſſion—

I never was in ſuch peril in my life.—I believe ſhe has a licenſe in her pocket, a prieſt in her cloſet, and the ceremony by heart.

SCENE I.

IT is in vain! Language cannot furniſh me with terms to ſoften to Victoria the horrid tranſaction. Cou'd ſhe ee the compunctions of my ſoul, her gentle heart wou'd pity me—But what then? She's ruin'd! My children are undone! Oh! the artifices of one baſe woman, and my villainy to another moſt amiable one, has made me unfit to live.—I am a wretch who ought to be blotted from ſociety.

Sir, Sir.

Well!

Sir, I have juſt met Don Florio; he aſk'd if my miſtreſs was at home, ſo I gueſſes he is going to our houſe, and ſo I run to let you know—for I loves to keep my promiſes, though I am deadly afraid of ſome miſ⯑chief.

You have done well.—Go home, and wait for me at the door, and admit me without noiſe.

At leaſt then, I ſhall have the pleaſure of revenge; I'll puniſh that harlot by ſacrificing her paramour in her arms—and then—Oh!

'Tis his carriage!—How ſucceſsful was my let⯑ter! This, my Florio, is a moſt important moment.

It is indeed; and I will leave you to make every advantage of it. If I am preſent, I muſt witneſs condeſcenſions from you, that I ſhall not be able to bear, though I know them to be but affected.—Now, Gaſper, play thy part well, and ſave Victoria!

This tender jealouſy is dear to me!—Keep in the ſaloon. Here comes the dotard.

Take my cloak; and, d'ye hear, Ricardo, go home and bring the eider down cuſhions for the coach, and tell the fellow not to hurry me poſt through the ſtreets of Madrid. I have been jolted from ſide to ſide, like a pippin in a mill ſtream.—Drive a man of my rank, as he wou'd a city vintner and his fat wife, going to a bull fight!—Hah, there ſhe is!

—there ſhe is! Charming Donna Laura, let me thus at the ſhrine of your beauty—

Fye, fye, thoſe new ſhoes!—they have made me ſkate all day, like a Dutchman on a canal, and now—Well, you ſee how profound my adoration is, Ma⯑dam.—Common lovers kneel; I was proſtrate.

You do me infinite honour.—Diſguſtful wretch!

But how cou'd you be ſo barbarous, to leave me at Valencia, without granting me one interview nearer than your balcony?

I will be ingenuous—it was female artifice. I knew you wou'd follow me; and how cou'd I reſiſt the triumph of ſhewing that I led in my chains the illuſtrious Don Sancho?

Oh you dear charming—But ſtay

—Bleſs me, what a a careleſs fellow I am! I had a caſket, with ſome diamonds in it—a necklace, and a few trifles, which I meant to have had the honour of placing on your toilette—Left it at home—Oh, my giddy pate!

You are always elegant, Don Sancho. I'll ſend my ſervant.—Pedro!

No, no, to-morrow. It will be an excuſe for me to come to morrow.—I ſhall often want excuſes.

My wiſhes ſhall always be your excuſe, but to-morrow be it then. You are thinner than you were, Don Sancho.—I proteſt, now I obſerve you, you are much alter'd.

Aye, Madam—Fretting. Your abſence threw me into a fever, and that deſtroy'd my bloom:—You ſee I look almoſt a middle-aged man, now.

No, really; far from it, I aſſure you.—The fop is as wrinkled as a baboon.

Then, jealouſy, that gave me a jaundice. My niece's huſband, I hear, Don Carlos, has been my happy rival—Oh, my blade will hardly keep in its ſcabbard, when I think of him.

Think no more of him—He has been long ba⯑niſh'd [69] my thoughts, be aſſured. I wonder you gave your niece to him, with ſuch a fortune.

Gave! She gave herſelf; and as to fortune, ſhe had not a piſtole from me.

'Twas indeed unneceſſary, with ſo fine an eſtate as ſhe had in Leon.

My niece an eſtate in Leon! Not enough to give ſhelter to a field mouſe; and if he has told you ſo, he is a braggart.

Told me ſo—I have the writings; he has made over the lands to me.

Made over the lands to you.—Oh a deceiver! I begin to ſuſpect a plot. Pray let me ſee this extraordi⯑nary deed.

A plot, I'll be ſworn.

Here is the deed which made that eſtate mine forever. No, Sir, I will intruſt it in no hand but my own—Yet look over me, and read the deſcription of the lands.

H—m—m—: "In the vicinage of Roſalva, bounded on the weſt by the river—h—m—m, on the eaſt by the foreſt—" Oh, an art⯑ful dog! I need read no further; I ſee how the thing is.

How, Sir!—but hold—Stay a moment—I am breathleſs with fear.

Nay, Madam, don't be afraid! 'Tis my eſtate—that's all—the very caſtle where I was born, and which I never did, nor ever will beſtow on any Don in the two Caſtiles. Diſſembling rogue! Bribe you with a fictitious title to my eſtate, ha, ha, ha!

Curſes follow him! The villain I em⯑ploy'd, [70] muſt have been his creature—His reluctance all art—and, whilſt I believ'd myſelf undoing him, was duped myſelf!

Cou'd you ſuppoſe I'd give Carlos ſuch an eſtate for running away with my niece? No, no, the vineyards, and the corn-fields, and the woods of Roſalva, are not for him.—I've ſomebody elſe in my eye—in my eye, obſerve me—to give thoſe to;—can't you gueſs who it is?

No, indeed!—He gives me a glimmering that ſaves me from deſpair.

I won't tell you, unleſs you'll bribe me.—I won't indeed—

There, now I'll tell you—They are all for you.—Yes, this eſtate, to which you have taken ſuch a fancy, ſhall be yours.—I'll give you the deeds, if you'll promiſe to love me, you little, cruel thing!

Can you be ſerious?

I'll ſign and ſeal to-morrow.

Noble Don Sancho! Thus then I annihilate the proof of his perfidy and my weakneſs. Thus I tear to atoms his deteſted name; and as I tread on theſe, ſo wou'd I on his heart.

My children then are ſav'd!

Oh, Florio, 'tis as thou ſaid'ſt—Carlos was a villain, and deceiv'd me.—Why this ſtrange air? Ah, I ſee the cauſe—You think me ruin'd, and will aban⯑don me.—Yes, I ſee it in thy averted face; thou dar'ſt not meet my eyes.—If I misjudge thee, ſpeak!

Laura, I cannot ſpeak.—You little gueſs the emotions of my heart.—Heav'n knows, I pity you!

Pity! Oh, villain! and has thy love already ſnatch'd the form of pity? Baſe, deceitful—

Stand off, looſe your weak hold; I'm come for vengeance!

Strike, ſtrike it here! Plunge it deep into that boſom already wounded by a thouſand ſtabs, keener and more painful than your ſword can give.—Here lives all the gnawing anguiſh of love betray'd; here live the pangs of diſappointed hopes, hopes ſanctified by holieſt vows, which have been written in the book of Heav'n.—Hah! he ſinks.—

—Oh! my Carlos! My be⯑lov'd! my huſband! forgive my too ſevere reproaches; thou art dear, yet dear as ever, to Victoria's heart!

Oh, you know not what you do—you know not what you are.—Oh, Victoria, thou art a beggar!

No, we are rich, we are happy! See there, the fragments of that fatal deed, which had I not recover'd, we had been indeed undone; yet ſtill not wretched, cou'd my Carlos think ſo!

The fragments of the deed! the deed which that baſe woman—

Speak not ſo harſhly.—To you, Madam, I fear, I ſeem reprehenſible; yet when you conſider my du⯑ties as wife and mother, you will forgive me.—Be not afraid of poverty—a woman has deceiv'd, but ſhe will not deſert you!

Is this real? Can I be awake?

Oh, may'ſt thou indeed awake to virtue!—You have talents that might▪ grace the higheſt of our ſex; be no longer unjuſt to ſuch precious gifts, by burying them in diſhonour.—Virtue is our firſt, moſt awful du⯑ty; bow, Laura! bow before her throne, and mourn in ceaſeleſs tears, that ever you forgot her heav'nly precepts!

So, by a ſmooth ſpeech about virtue, you think to cover the injuries I ſuſtain. Vile, inſinuating monſter!—but thou know'ſt me not.—Revenge is ſweeter to my heart than love; and if there is a law in Spain to gratify that paſſion, your virtue ſhall have another field for exer⯑ciſe.

No, no; you'll find no help in the law, charmer! However, the long robes are rich—get amongſt them; their gravities may adminiſter to your avarice, though not to your revenge.

My hated rival, and my charming wife! How many ſweet myſteries have you to unſold!—Oh, Victoria! my ſoul thanks thee, but I dare not yet ſay I love thee, 'till ten thouſand acts of watchful tenderneſs, have prov'd how deep the ſentiment's engrav'd.

Can it be true that I have been unhappy?—But the myſteries, my Carlos, are already explain'd to you—Gaſper's reſemblance to my uncle—

Yes, Sir, I was always apt at reſemblances—In our plays at home, I am always Queen Cleopatra—You know ſhe was but a gypſey Queen, and I hits her off to a nicety.

Come, my Victoria—Oh, there is a painful pleaſure in my boſom—To gaze on thee, to liſten to, and love thee, ſeems like the bliſs of angels cheering whiſpers to repentant ſinners!

Lord help 'em! how eaſily the women are taken in!—Here's a wild rogue has plagu'd her heart theſe two years, and a whip ſyllabub about angels and whiſpers clears ſcores.—'Tis pity but they were a little—tho', now I think on't, the number of theſe gentle fair ones is ſo very ſmall, that if it was leſſen'd, the two ſexes might be confounded together, and the whole world be ſuppos'd of the maſculine gender.

Ah, here comes the man at laſt, after I have been ſauntering in ſight of his lodgings theſe two hours.—Now, if my ſcheme takes, what a happy perſon I ſhall be! and ſure, as I was Donna Olivia to-day, to pleaſe my lady, I may be Donna Olivia to night, to pleaſe myſelf. I'll ad⯑dreſs him as the maid of a lady who has taken a fancy to him, then convey him to our houſe—then retire, and then come in again, and with a vaſt deal of confuſion, confeſs I ſent my maid for him. If he ſhould diſlike my forward⯑neſs, the cenſure will fall on my lady; if he ſhould be pleas'd with my perſon, the advantage will be mine. But perhaps he's come here on ſome wicked frolic or other.—I'll watch him at a diſtance before I ſpeak.

Not here, 'faith; though ſhe gave me laſt night but a faint refuſal, and I had a right, by all the rules of gallantry, to conſtrue that into an aſſent.—Then ſhe's a jilt—Hang her, I feel I am uneaſy—The firſt wo⯑man that ever gave me pain.—I am aſham'd to perceive that this ſpot has attractions for me, only becauſe it was here I convers'd with her. 'Twas here the little ſyren, [74] conſcious of her charms, unveil'd her faſcinating face.—'Twas here—

'Twas here that Julio, leaving champaigne untaſted, and ſongs of gallantry unſung, came to talk to the whiſtling branches.

'Twas here that Julio, flying from the young and gay, was found in doleful meditation—

—on a wench, for a hundred ducats!

Who is ſhe?

Not Donna Olivia, Gentlemen; not Donna Olivia.

We have been ſeeking you, to aſk the event of your viſit to her.

The event has prov'd that you have been moſt groſly dup'd.

I knew that—Ha, ha, ha!

And you likewiſe, I know that—Ha, ha ha!—The ſair lady, ſo far from being a vixen, is the very eſſence of gentleneſs. To me, ſo much ſweetneſs in a wife, wou'd be downright maukiſh—I like the little acer⯑bities which flow from quick ſpirits, and a conſciouſneſs of power.—One may as well marry a looking-glaſs as a wo⯑man who conſtantly reflects back one's own ſentiments, and one's own whims.

Well, but ſhe's fond of a Jew's harp.

Deteſts it; ſhe would be as fond of a Jew.

Pho, pho, this is a game at croſs purpoſes;—Let us all go to Don Caeſar's together, and compare opi⯑nions on the ſpot.

I'll go moſt willingly—but it will be only to cover you both with confuſion, for being the two men in Spain moſt eaſily impos'd on.

Gentlemen, my lady has ſent me for one of you, pray which of you is it?

Me, without doubt, child.

I don't know that.

Look at me, my dear, don't you think I am the man?

Let me ſee—a good air, and well made, you are the man for a dancer.—

Well dreſs'd, and nicely put out of hands—you are the man for a bandbox.

Handſome and bold—you are the man for my lady.

My dear little Iris, here's all the gold in my pocket.—Gentlemen, I wiſh you a good night—I am your very obedient, humble—

Pho, prithee, don't be a fool. Are we not going to Donna Olivia?

Donna Olivia muſt wait, my dear boy; we can decide about her to-morrow. Come along, my little dove of Venus!

What a raſh fellow it is! ten to one but this is ſome common buſineſs, and he'll be robb'd and mur⯑der'd—they take him for a ſtranger.

Let's follow, and ſee where ſhe leads him.

That's hardly fair, however, as I think there's danger, we will follow.

Bring me my veil and follow me to the Prado.

[76] Julio will certainly be there—he has too much breeding not to tranſlate my poſitive denial into aſſent—at leaſt I muſt convince myſelf. If I ſee him compleatly vanquiſh'd, I can, by the moſt unlucky chance in the world, drop a card with my name, and then all the reſt follows in courſe.

There, Sir, pleaſe to ſit down, 'till my lady is ready to wait on you—ſhe won't be long. . . . . I'm ſure ſhe's out, and I may do great things before ſhe returns.

Through fifty back lanes, a long garden, and a narrow ſtair-caſe, into a ſuperb apartment—all that's in the regular way; as the Spaniſh women manage it, one intrigue is too much like another, whilſt the ſprightly dames of Paris have the art of giving the ſame intrigue every day a new air. Now, preſently, in comes a ſtately dame with a veil on; ſhe tells me, ſhe fears I have but a ſlight opinion of her virtue; I make her an anſwer about her beauty, and, after a dozen or two entreaties and de⯑nials, off comes her veil. A fat matron, perhaps of for⯑ty—I ſwear ſhe's a Hebe—ſhe thinks me very obliging, and I find her very grateful; and this is the epitome of half the amours in Madrid. If it was not now and then for the little lively fillip of a jealous huſband or brother, which obliges one to leap from a window, or crawl, like a cat, along the gutters, there would be no bearing the ennui. Ah! ah! but this promiſes novelty; [looking through the wing] a young girl and an old man—wife or daughter? They are coming this way. My lovely incog⯑nita, by all that's propitious! Why did not ſome kind [77] ſpirit whiſper to me my happineſs? but hold—ſhe can't mean to treat the old gentleman with a ſight of me.

No, no, Madam, no going out—give me your veil; that will be uſeleſs 'till you put it on for life. There, madam, this is your apartment, your houſe, your gar⯑den, your aſſembly, 'till you go to your convent. Why, how impudent you are, to look thus unconcern'd!—Can hardly forbear laughing in my face!—Very well—very well!

Ha, ha, ha! I'll be even with you, my dear father, if you treble lock it. I'll ſtay here two days, without once aſking for my liberty, and you'll come the third, with tears in your eyes, to take me out.—He has forgot that door leading to the garden—but I vow I'll ſtay,

I can make the time paſs pleaſantly enough.

I hope ſo.

Heav'n and earth!

My dear creature, why are you ſo alarmed; am I here before you expected me?

Expected you!

Oh, this pretty ſurprize! Come, let us ſit down, I think your father was very obliging to lock us in together.

Sir, Sir! my father!

[without] Aye, 'tis all in vain—I won't come near you. There you are, and there you may ſtay.—I ſhan't return, make as much noiſe as you will.

Why are you not aſham'd that your father has ſo much more conſideration for your gueſt than you have?

My gueſt! how is it poſſible he can have diſ⯑cover'd me!

Pho, this is carrying the thing further than you need—if there was a third perſon here, it might be prudent.

Why, this aſſurance, Don Julio, is really—

The thing in the world you are moſt ready to pardon.

Upon my word I don't know how to treat you.

Conſult your heart!

I ſhall conſult my honour.

Honour is a pretty thing to play with, but when ſpoken with that very grave face, after having ſent your maid to bring me here, is really more than I ex⯑pected. I ſhall be in an ill humour preſently—I won't ſtay if you treat me thus.

Well, this is ſuperior to every thing! I have heard that men will ſlander women privately to each other, 'tis their common amuſement, but to do it to one's face!—and you really pretend that I ſent for you?

Ha, ha, ha! Well, if it obliges you, I will pretend that you did not ſend for me; that your maid did not conduct me hither, nay, that I have not now the ſu⯑preme happineſs—

Donna Olivia de Zuniga! how the devil came ſhe here?

That's lucky! Olivia, my dear friend, why do you run away? Keep the character, I charge you. [apart to Minette] Be ſtill Olivia!

Oh! dear madam! I was—I was ſo frigh⯑ten'd when I ſaw that gentleman.

Oh, my dear, it's the merrieſt pretty kind of gentleman in the world; he pretends that I ſent my maid for him into the ſtreets, ha, ha!

That's right, always tell a thing yourſelf, which you wou'd not have believ'd.

It is the readieſt excuſe for being found in a lady's apartment, however. Now will I ſwear I know nothing of the matter.

Now, I think it a horrid poor excuſe, he has certainly not had occaſion to invent reaſons for ſuch imper⯑tinencies often. Tell me that he has made love to you to day.

I fancy that he has had occaſion to excuſe im⯑pertinencies often;—his impertinence to me today—

To you, madam?

Making love to me, my dear, all the morning—could hardly get him away he was ſo deſirous to ſpeak to my father. Nay, Sir, I don't care for your impatience.

Now wou'd I give a thouſand piſtoles if ſhe were a man!

Nay, then, this accidental meeting is fortu⯑nate—pray, Don Julio, don't let my preſence prevent your ſaying what you think proper to my friend—ſhall I leave you together?

To contradict a lady on ſuch an aſſer⯑tion wou'd be too groſs; but, upon my honour, Donna Olivia is the laſt woman upon earth who cou'd inſpire [80] me with a tender idea. Find an excuſe to ſend her away, my angel, I entreat you. I have a thouſand things to ſay, and the moments are too precious to be given to her.

I think ſo too, but one can't be rude, you know. Come, my dear, ſit down,

have you brought your work?

The devil! what can ſhe mean?

Donna Olivia, I am ſorry to inform you that my phyſician has juſt been ſent for to your father, Don Caeſar.—The poor gentleman was ſeized with a vertigo.

Vertigoes! Oh, he has 'em frequently you know.

Yes, and they always keep me from his ſight.

Did ever one women prevent another from leaving her at ſuch a moment before? I really, madam, cannot comprehend—

It is impoſſible—impoſſible, gentlemen? Don Julio can⯑not be here.

Hah, who's that?

There! did we not tell you ſo? we ſaw him enter the garden.

What can be the meaning of all this? A man in my daughter's apartment!

Hold, Sir! Don Julio is of the firſt rank in Spain, and will unqueſtionably be able to ſatisfy your honour, without troubling your ſword.—We have done miſchief, Vincentio!

They have been curſedly imper⯑tinent! but I'll bring you off, never fear, by pretending a paſſion for your buſy friend, there.

Satisfy me then in a moment; ſpeak, one of you.

I came here, Sir, by the mereſt accident.—The garden door was open, curioſity led me to this apart⯑ment.—You came in a moment after, and very civilly lock'd me in with your daughter.

Lock'd you in! why then, did you not, like a man of honour, cry out?

The lady cried out, Sir, and you told her you would not return; but when Donna Olivia de Zuniga entered, for whom I have conceived a moſt violent paſſion—

A paſſion for her! Oh, let me hear no more on't.—A paſſion for her! You may as well entertain a paſſion for the untameable hyaena.

There, Vincentio, what think you now? Xantippe or not!

I am afraid I muſt give up that—but pray ſup⯑port me as to this point, Don Caeſar; is not the lady fond of a Jew's harp?

Fond! She's fond of nothing, but playing the vixen; there is not ſuch a fury upon earth.

Theſe are odd liberties, with a perſon who does not belong to him.

I'll play the hypocrite for her no more; the world ſhall know her true character, they ſhall know—but aſk her maid there.

Her maid!

Why, yes, Sir, to ſay truth, I am but Donna Olivia's maid, after all.

Dear Minette! ſpeak for me, or I am now ruin'd.

I will, ma'am.—I muſt confeſs, Sir,

there never was ſo bitter a temper'd creature, as my lady is. I have borne her humours for two years; I have ſeen her by night and by day.

I will, I will!

and this I am ſure, that if you marry her, you'll rue the day every hour the firſt month, and hang yourſelf the next. There, madam, I have done it roundly now.

I am undone.—I am caught in my own ſnare.

After this true character of my daughter, I ſup⯑poſe, Signor, we ſhall hear no more of your paſſion; ſo let us go down, and leave madam to begin her penance.

My ideas are totally confus'd.—You Donna Olivia de Zuniga, and the perſon I thought you, her maid! ſomething too flattering darts acroſs my mind.

If you have taken a fancy to her maid, I have nothing farther to ſay, but as to that violent creature.—

Oh, do not prophane her.—Where is that ſpirit which you tell me of? Is it that which ſpeaks in modeſt, conſcious bluſhes on her cheeks? Is it that which bends her lovely eyes to earth?

Ay, ſhe's only bending 'em to earth, conſidering how to afflict me with ſome new obſtinacy—ſhe'll break out like a tygreſs in a moment.

It cannot be—are you, charming woman! ſuch a creature?

Yes, to all mankind—but one.

But one! Oh, might that excepted one, be me!

Wou'd you not fear to truſt your fate with her, you have cauſe to think ſo hateful?

No, I'd bleſs the hour that bound my fate to her's—permit me, Sir, to pay my vows to this fair vixen.

What are you ſuch a bold man as that? Pho, but if you are, 'twill be only loſt time—ſhe'll contrive ſome way or other, to return your vows upon your hands.

If they have your authority, Sir, I will return them—only with my own.

What's that! what did ſhe ſay? my head is giddy with ſurprize.

And mine with rapture.

Don't make a fool of me, Olivia.—Wil't marry him?

When you command me, Sir.

My dear Don Julio, thou art my guardian an⯑gel—ſhall I have a ſon-in-law at laſt? Garcia, Vincen⯑tio, cou'd you have thought it?

No, Sir, if we had, we ſhould have ſav'd that lady much trouble; 'tis pretty clear now, why ſhe was a vixen.

Yes, yes, 'tis clear enough, and I beg your pardon, madam, for the ſhare of trouble I gave you—but pray have the goodneſs to tell me ſincerely, what do you think of a craſh?

I love muſic, Don Vincentio, I admire your ſkill, and whenever you'll give me a concert, I ſhall be oblig'd.

You cou'd not have pleas'd me ſo well, if you had married me.

Hah, here comes Victoria and her Carlos. [84] My friend, you are happy—'tis in your eyes, I need not aſk the event.

What is this Don Carlos, whom Victoria gave us for a couſin? Sir, you come in happy hour!

I do indeed, for I am moſt happy.

My dear Carlos, what has new made thee thus, ſince morning?

A wife! Marry, Julio, marry!

What! this advice from you?

Yes; and when you have married an angel, when that angel has done for you ſuch things, as makes your gratitude almoſt equal to your love, you may then gueſs ſomething of what I feel, in calling this angel mine.

Now, I truſt, Don Julio, after all this, that if I ſhould do you the honour of my hand, you'll treat me cruelly, be a very bad man, that I, like my exemplary couſin—

Hold, Olivia! it is not neceſſary that a huſ⯑band ſhould be faulty, to make a wife's character exem⯑plary.—Should he be tenderly watchful of your happi⯑neſs, your gratitude will give a thouſand graces to your conduct; whilſt the purity of your manners, and the nice honour of your life, will gain you the approbation of thoſe, whoſe praiſe is fame.

Pretty and matronly! thank you, my dear. We have each ſtruck a bold ſtroke to-day;—your's has been to reclaim a huſband, mine to get one; but the moſt important is yet to be obtain'd.—The approbation of our judges.