ACT I. SCENE I.

NO more, couſin, I beſeech you; all your rhetoric will not perſuade me to leave ſo important a care, as the honour of our family, to the caprice of a giddy girl. It was a charge committed abſolutely to me, by our pa⯑rents, on their death-bed, and I alone muſt be anſwerable for any blemiſh on that honour.

I have no doubt, Don Henriquez, but that this your extreme haſte takes it's riſe from pru⯑dence; but may not even our virtues be ſometimes overſtrain'd, and have their dangerous effects? [2] 'Tis from this fear, that I have often preſum'd to interpoſe, and muſt repeat it; wou'd it not be better to let your ſiſter ſee, and make herſelf acquainted with the diſpoſition of, the man with whom ſhe is to paſs her life?

Which is, in other words, to give her more opportunity for devices, and to try whether ſhe cannot fruſtrate my deſigns—no, no,—an agreeable young girl ſhou'd never be left to her own direction;—tricks, plots, and contrivances are ſo innate in them, they will couzen themſelves rather than their imaginations ſhou'd want em⯑ployment; I have ſeen too many inſtances of their vanity, giddineſs, ingratitude; well—well!—I have, within this hour, receiv'd intelligence from the Marquis d'Olivera, thro' whoſe generous inter⯑vention my deſigns are, at laſt, come to maturity, that the perſon, to whom ſhe has been ſo long contracted, Don Antonio de Mendoza—

Is he the man? The very name removes half my objections. Why has it been ſo long concealed?

Becauſe I wou'd not give my ſiſter's enter⯑priſing genius either time, or means, to counter⯑act my purpoſes—but now, the proſpect of a ſpeedy concluſion of the whole affair renders that ſecrecy no longer neceſſary; this evening he will arrive from Flanders; and ſo well convinc'd am I of the propriety of my conduct, I will not ſleep, till they are married.

Notwithſtanding his undoubted merit, I cannot yet be reconcil'd to that unreaſonable cuſ⯑tom of contracting perſons, who never ſaw each other; compelling them to be of the ſame opinion, in the moſt important concern of life, before you know whether they cou'd agree about the moſt inſignificant.

I wou'd only compel her to her good, and think I am the beſt judge what meaſures to purſue.—Opinions indeed!—If you, Don Juan, delay the diſpoſal of your ſiſter in marriage, till ſhe is able to determine what her opinion is, or (to expreſs myſelf conformably to your eaſy tem⯑per) till ſhe has fix'd her affections, ſhe may give you a brother-in-law very ill ſuited to your choice, and judgment.

Strange! that your underſtanding, edu⯑cation, and travels, ſhou'd not have allay'd that ſevere opinion of women; by ſtrangers imputed to us as a national fault, and indeed with too much juſtice.

Perſons, who cannot comprehend the mo⯑tives, which actuate ſuch as are wiſer than them⯑ſelves, ever make ſtrange interpretations of their conduct. I am determin'd no longer to endure the daily, the hourly anxieties, and fears, which a ſolicitude for Honoria's conduct has given me; this night they end.

I have had the like charge of a ſiſter, you know, theſe thirteen years, and cannot recol⯑lect a pain mine ever gave to me.

The compariſon don't hold; their diſpo⯑ſitions are different; yet, I wiſh, Don Juan, you may not ſuffer for your eaſineſs of temper; you give the reins too much into your ſiſter's hands; the thoughtleſsneſs of youth, and paſſions un⯑controul'd, may lead her far aſtray; 'tis too much to be fear'd; I have ſtrong reaſons, have nicely weigh'd her conduct—you may repent—

I know what you allude to; but the tranſactions of that fatal night are far from alarm⯑ing me about Felicia's conduct; 'tis true, Don Pedro was kill'd under my balcony; you throw the deed on Florio, and his flight ſeems to juſtify the ac⯑cuſation; yet, what reproach does this caſt on [4] her? For when I offer'd, in conſequence of your aſſertion, that he had diſhonourable deſigns on her, to interfere with you in his behalf, to ſtop the proſecution, and give her hand to him, if her happineſs conſiſted therein, ſhe utterly declin'd it; aſſuring me ſhe had no one motive to wiſh for ſuch an event, but many to avoid it.

You are too blind.

And you too ſuſpicious; why ſhou'd ſhe deceive me? Have I not ever aſſur'd her I wou'd conſult her inclination?

Ay, there's the curſe, that ties my tongue.

I therefore cannot, will not doubt her. Her heart is generous and honeſt; on ſuch diſpo⯑ſitions, indulgence weighs more than ſeverity; and cou'd you be induc'd to alter your conduct towards Honoria—but I aſk pardon; your own judgment muſt be your director; ſhort as my ab⯑ſence has been, events may have occur'd, which may render me now an incompetent adviſer.—Your ſiſter is miſtreſs of many virtues; and fame ſpeaks loudly of Antonio, as a man, a ſcholar, and a ſoldier.

On thoſe conſiderations, let our argument die. I am determin'd. Will you accompany me to our friend and kinſman the corregidor? I wou'd require him to be a witneſs, and partaker of our ceremonies to-night.

I will but conduct my ſiſter to her couſin Honoria, to whom ſhe has devoted this evening, and attend you.

Shall I expect you in the Piazza?

You may.

A man, with a heart at eaſe like his, may well preach ſuch doctrine; but I carry a load of inquietude in mine.—My ſiſter married, one [5] weighty care is remov'd, but a far heavier re⯑mains.—Ungrateful, blind Felicia!—what ſuffer⯑ings am I doom'd to undergo, yet know not how to utter or relieve them! to love, adore, doubt, fear, ſuſpect, deſpair, yet ſtill perſiſt to love! I bluſh at my own weakneſs—to apply, and be re⯑fus'd, were a perpetual thorn to me! and that, from her blind prepoſſeſſion to another, and Juan's paſſive acquieſcence to her choice, is almoſt cer⯑tain! rivall'd too in her affections by a man, who, but a ſhort time before, had aſk'd my ſiſter of me; my pride, my honour is inſulted; revenge is my only remedy; in that I will perſiſt, and experience its utmoſt efficacy.

Wou'd Felicia were come! her kind and chearful temper might give me ſome relief—Yet how can I expect it? This tyrant brother! can I call him leſs! to compel me to marry a man I never ſaw, while the choſen of my heart is forc'd to avoid me—is rejected. My brother's hatred cou'd ſcarce entail on me a greater miſery than his care—Yet what can I do? His power over me is unlimited—no alternative left, but what is de⯑ſperate; yet ſomething muſt be done; I cannot thus tamely ſubſcribe to my own unhappineſs.

With pleaſure I eſcort my ſiſter to ſo dear and amiable a friend—methinks 'tis pity even a wall ſhou'd make the houſes two, of neigh⯑bours ſo entirely one.

Yes, and the houſes are more entirely one, than you imagine, my dear brother; thanks to our private door.

We have ever thought the ſlighteſt ſepara⯑tion, inconſiſtent with our friendſhip—You oblige me with a moſt welcome favour in uniting us now; 'tis a degree of charity, and I thank you. Am I to be honour'd with your company too?

I cou'd with great pleaſure ſtay, but an en⯑gagement with your brother calls me; and the leaſt treſpaſs on his punctilious temper, you know—

Shall I call my couſin mine for the night?

Her own inclination is her ruler. Your moſt obedient.

There's a brother for you—upon my word if he were not ſo related, I ſhou'd be apt to miſ⯑take him for a lover.

And give him encouragement perhaps?

Undoubtedly, if my heart were free, and I cou'd be convinc'd that ſame politeneſs would not abate on marriage; a little of that, you know, goes a great way in a huſband—But am I never to ſee my ſweet friend ſmile again?—

I wou'd willingly put off my grief, to avoid diſturbing your gaiety, but am not able.

Then let me put off my gaiety, that I may not interrupt your grief; there is often eaſe in the indulgence of it, and I am too giddy for you. Tell me, my dear Honoria, how can I metamor⯑phoſe myſelf ſo as to ſuit your feelings? I wou'd be, or do, any thing that might give you pleaſure.

You never fail to do that.—Your every look, and word, has affection in it; and that agreeable manner of ſetting them off, makes what wou'd be ſtil'd levity in others, a virtue in you, as it's only ſpring is from a deſire to entertain.

Deliver'd with ſingular judgment, and po⯑litereſs: your's to the very ground.

Engaging playfulneſs! how can ſo tender, ſo ſuſceptible a heart as yours be ſo much at eaſe, in it's preſent doubtful, and anxious ſituation?

Why that's true—and it is ſometimes other⯑wiſe; but as I have not to charge fortune, or friends, with any actual affliction, I bear accidental ills as well as I am able, and endeavour to keep ſorrow at arm's length. My hopes, I think, grow faſter than my fears, and I truſt to the great mid⯑wife, Time, to bring forth the fruits of 'em.

And may they anſwer your deſerts! I have almoſt loſt a part of my grief, in my amazement at the adventures you were relating to me laſt night, when my lordly brother interrupted us.

Yes, abſence is a pretty whet to affection, now and then; he is ten times worſe than ever; there's no getting a moment now; his love, and jealouſy, together keep him in a perpetual fidget.

I cou'd not ſleep, for thinking of your ſtory.

Ay, is it not a fine one? ſince the days of don Quixotte, to this preſent ſeven o'clock in the evening, ſure never was a better ſubject for ro⯑mance—Let me ſee, I'll enumerate the particulars: Travels—Surprizes—Wars—Drums—Trumpets,—taken priſoner—attack'd by a ruffian—ſav'd by a heroic ſelf-defence!—Swooning!—Recovery!—and ſuch a recovery! in the arms of a hand⯑ſome young fellow! O lud! couſin!

Who had kill'd the attempter of your honour too?

Oh! no—you forget—I had the credit of the victory over him—As ſoon as he began to uſe violence, I ſeiz'd his dagger, and menac'd his deſtruction, (ay and meant it too) when a ſudden alarm, and fear for his own ſafety, reliev'd me from the monſter.

But how came you depriv'd of your bro⯑ther's aſſiſtance?

I was coming to that, when Don Henriquez interrupted us—in defending himſelf, and me, (which he did, a long time, with great galantry, ere we were taken priſoners) he receiv'd ſome ſlight wounds, and was lodg'd in an upper apartment of the houſe.—I was taken to a pavilion in the garden, which, I preſume, the wretch, who aſſaulted me, thought moſt fit for his wicked purpoſes.

Your attachments to your relation, the Count D'Oniate, and the concern your brother had in his embaſſy to the emperor, threaten'd ſurely a longer abſence. What occaſion'd your return?

My brother was ſuddenly recall'd to his regiment, by royal command; and the neceſſity for uſing diſpatch in our return to Sevil, induc'd him to take the neareſt road—too near the enemies quarters—and thence we were made priſoners.

I am ſure, I have ſenſibly partaken every fear, and diſtreſs, during your relation, and la⯑ment the neceſſity, that involv'd you in ſuch per⯑plexities, tho' it reſtor'd ſo much of my happineſs to me—And you dearly love the noble ſoldier, who offered to revenge your injuries, or die beſide you?

Moſt entirely.—I always ſpeak truth, you know: if a ſudden paſſion, a firſt-ſight love, is juſtifiable in any one, it is ſurely ſo in me; I ſup⯑poſe gratitude may have ſome ſhare; but then ſuch a perſon, ſuch looks, ſuch words—however, I am miſtaken, if I did not leave him as much cauſe to remember the adventure, as he did me.

Why then did he leave you ſo abruptly?

What cou'd the poor ſoul do? the trumpets ſummon'd him, his men call'd loudly for their commander; there was, to be ſure, a notable [9] combat between love and honour, but honour got the better, and I honour him for it.

And what was this gallant hero's name?

I know not; I had neither means, nor time, to enquire: the moment my brother had recover'd ſome few hours ſtrength, we were oblig'd to ſet off—But enough of my affairs; how ſtand my ſweet friend's?

Worſe, and worſe, Felicia,—ſo near a criſis, that my brother is determin'd on my mar⯑rying this night.

My brother hinted as much, as we came here; but I cou'd ſcarce believe it.

'Tis too true—Henriquez has juſt receiv'd advice, that the perſon, to whom I am contracted, will arrive this evening.

How abſurd, and cruel! and poor Florio—

Now doubly baniſh'd; firſt from my bro⯑ther's poſitive forbiddance of his addreſſes, and viſits, on account of this unhappy contract; and then, from the ill-fated death of Don Pedro, whom, in ſelf-defence, you know, he kill'd: if he is found, my brother's evidence muſt condemn him to the law, and his reſentment ſeeks all occaſions to compaſs the moſt ſevere gratifications.

Raſh, inconſiderate, unfeeling man! Was not his ſavage love of me the cauſe, which drives him hourly to ſome mad extreme? Then that un⯑lucky ſimilitude of dreſs, which led him to believe Florio was entertaining me, that fatal evening, in our balcony! nay, allowing his ſuſpicions had been grounded in truth, cou'd nothing appeaſe him, but aſſaſſinating Florio, and hazarding his friend Don Pedro in ſo bafe a cauſe? Can he ſuppoſe ſuch deſperate, ſuch terrifying proofs of paſſion, (which while his pride will not ſuffer him to own, he weakly fancies is unſeen) wou'd not diſguſt my heart?

However he has diſdain'd to truſt a wo⯑man, I wonder his friendſhip with your brother has not induc'd him to aſk your hand of him.

Oh my dear! two moſt weighty reaſons are againſt it; firſt his pride, leſt he ſhou'd be refus'd; ſecondly, my brother's ſtrong diſlike of forc'd marriages, to which he is no ſtranger; tho', between you and me, my dear, my brother is as well convinc'd of his paſſion, as we are; and proceed⯑ed ſo far, as to apply to me thereon; but finding my averſion, my horror at the very mention of it, according to his accuſtom'd tenderneſs, he has never ſince re-aſſum'd the topic; but has Henriquez at laſt graciouſly been pleas'd to tell you your in⯑tended huſband's name?

He has, Felicia, this day at dinner; not a moment ſooner.

May not I know it?

He is call'd Antonio de Mendoza.

I am pleas'd, Honoria, to hear you talking of your huſband; it gives me hope your conduct will deſerve the happineſs I am providing for you;—have you the letter ready, which I injoin'd you to write to him? I'll ſend a ſervant with it, to meet him on the way, and give him entire poſſeſſion of that range of apartments, deſign'd for him; to ſhew how abſolutely, next to myſelf, he is maſter here—'tis a reſpect, which perſons of condition reciprocally challenge.

A ſervant from Don Antonio is juſt alighted at the gate, with letters to your lordſhip.

I cou'd not have receiv'd more welcome [11] news; admit him. Siſter, conduct your lovely friend within.

Exquiſite, enchanting, miſ-judging woman!

Sir, Don Antonio kiſſes your hands with this letter.

I'm glad to find he is in health; yet he ſeems to think the hour of his arrival uncertain; elſe I wou'd myſelf meet, and conduct him hither.

Tho' the hour is uncertain, ſignor, yet he will undoubtedly be here to night; for he has ap⯑pointed the very place, where I am to wait for him.

You are returning thither now?

As ſoon as I have receiv'd your com⯑mands, ſignor.

I'll anſwer this forthwith, then give you your whole commiſſion. While I write, make the me [...]enger welcome:

I hope nothing will prevent his coming this evening. I grow more and more impatient—there's danger in delay—however Honoria may put on a ſpe [...]ous complaiſance, I know her; her head is quick to contrive, and her heart deſperate to execute. Let but Antonio come, and ſhe ſhall not remain unmarried a ſingle hour.

You ſee how arrogant, and abſolute he is.

Yet his proud heart felt a ſmart twinge from my keen eyes, juſt now, or I'm miſtaken.

Watch'd like a culprit, commanded like a ſlave, torn from the man I love, forc'd to a man I have not an idea of!

Od's my life, girl, don't ſtand enumerating [12] our diſtreſſes, but think how we may remove 'em; we ſhall mend nothing by complaining; ſomething muſt be contriv'd.

But they come ſo quick upon us—

If they come too quick for a woman's in⯑vention, they are ſuch as never came before.

I have it.

I knew it.

Lend me your veil, couſin; Roſa, run and ſee whether my brother is ſettled to diſpatch Antonio's man.

What's your ſcheme? quick.

If my brother is ſet down to write, I think I may ſay an hour is ſecurely mine; for his ex⯑travagant ſuſpicion makes him diſtruſt the ſenſe of his own words, and he'll weigh a ſubſcription to a ſcruple, leſt he ſhou'd degrade his dignity by his ſtyle; therefore I'll to Florio, let him know the ſtraits to which I am driven, and that all hopes are over, unleſs he can deviſe ſome prompt ex⯑pedient to relieve us.

But where d'ye think to ſee him?

At the houſe where he is conceal'd, 'tis not far off, I'll venture.

D'ye know the way?

No, but Roſa can conduct me; ſhe has been often there.

Your brother, ma'am—coming already!

Provoking!

Into my chamber—quick.

Since you are ſo deſirous, friend, you ſhall be indulg'd in ſeeing her.

I ſhou'd be glad to have it in my power, ſignor, to tell my maſter I had that honour.

Where's your lady, Roſa?

In her chamber, ſir.

Acquaint her that Antonio's man requeſts to pay his duty to her, before he goes.

Wait here, ſhe will come to you; you will pro⯑bably find a kinſwoman with her, but may diſ⯑tinguiſh your future miſtreſs, by being in her home-dreſs without her veil. I will go, and com⯑pleat my letter.

I have been bold to requeſt the honour of ſeeing your ladyſhip, that I may be more wel⯑come to my lord, at my return.

An odd miſtake!—further it, my dear girl; it may lead to ſomething, no matter what; drowning people catch at ſtraws.

Friend, in what ſtate left you your lord, and mine?

As happy, madam, as the hopes of being your's cou'd make him.

I pray preſent my ſervice to him, and ſay, I ſhall be rejoic'd to hear he has compleated his journey ſafely, and in health: my good wiſhes at⯑tend him. Friend, farewell.

Egad, ſhe's a lovely creature; my maſter will be raviſh'd, when he ſees her; I begin to [14] hope this blind bargain, made by proxy, may prove as good, as the old ones made by love; and that thoſe pretty eyes of her's may coax his wits back again, which, I think, he has loſt; rav⯑ing eternally about ſome unknown damſel, whom he fancies, in his field-errantry, he recover'd from a trance, and he has dreamt of it ever ſince—I'll go wake him with this good news.

And yet for the ſoul of me, notwithſtand⯑ing our vexations, I cou'd hardly forbear laughing at the formal fool's miſtake—Did not I prim my⯑ſelf up with a pretty prudiſh reſerve? Was it like you, couſin?

There's no ſaying what may be the conſe⯑quence of the miſtake, but it was a lucky thing for me, I'm ſure; for I ſhou'd not have known how to ſpeak for myſelf.

Madam, do we go? What do you re⯑ſolve?

That's true; your brother can't be much longer; and if, when he returns, he ſhou'd miſs you from your apartment—I don't think you can venture now.

What's the hour, Roſa?

Near eight madam; the clock ſtruck ſeven, before Donna Felicia enter'd the chamber.

I dare not venture now indeed; run Roſa, fetch your veil.

I'll appoint him in my tablets, time and place, where he ſhall meet me, and Roſa ſhall carry 'em.

That's well; but where do you deſign your interview?

In the remoteſt part of the garden, which fronts my apartment, you know; where I have often met him, ſince your abſence depriv'd us of the [15] advantages of your friendly aſſiſtance, and the pri⯑vate door to your portion of Don Juan's houſe; Roſa has a key to the back-door of our garden.

And how cou'd ſhe get that? Not by fair means, I'm ſure.—Henriquez us'd to be as tenaci⯑ous of his keys, as of his long-ſpun pedigree; and even open'd a door himſelf with as much cau⯑tious fear, as if he apprehended a piece of his anceſtry ſhou'd make it's eſcape at it.

Roſa artfully procur'd me an impreſſion of my brother's key one day, when ſome ſudden in⯑telligence hurried him abroad in ſearch of Florio; and by that we got one made.

Well contriv'd, my notable girl!

Shall I beg your patience, while I write?

This was a lucky accident for you, Roſa; you may chance to fee your fond lover Guzman.

He is a fond lover of himſelf, I believe, madam; and without a rival.

Are you ſure your words and thoughts agree?

I'm not ſo very old to be in my dotage, ma'am.

Nor ſo very young, but you may be in love. Dotage and love are couſin-germans, Roſa.

They may, when we encourage a paſſion, at firſt ſight, madam, and indulge it, without a chance of ſucceſs;—otherwiſe, not quite ſo nearly related.

Pert, and witty enough that! I have pro⯑vok'd a waſp, and am ſtung by it.

My dear Roſa, make all the haſte you are able.

I'll fly ma'am; has Florio the other key of the tablets?

Yes, yes,—pray diſpatch.

Never doubt me, madam, for all my own fortune is betted on your game.

There ſhe goes; which is nimbleſt, her heels, or her tongue, I wonder? Come, my dear girl, try to wear a more chearful aſpect; if we are reduc'd to deſperate meaſures, why let the perſon, who cauſes it, be blam'd.

He juſtly wou'd deſerve it, tho' nothing but the laſt diſtreſs, I think, ſhou'd urge me to ſuch meaſures, as the world might cenſure: yet, were not my affections ſo ſtrongly pre-engag'd, to a delicate feeling, ſurely it is no trifling wound, to be oblig'd to give a worthy man a hand, without a heart.

Come, come, hope well—and do not tor⯑ment your mind any further;—let us retire to your chamber, and, while we wait Roſa's return, I'll try to raiſe your ſpirits, with your favourite ſong.

My ſweet friend, I fear the cold regard, I ſhall pay, will ill deſerve ſuch a kind, and agree⯑able offer;

In vain we ſeek relief from outward things,

'Tis from within alone ſort quiet ſprings.

ACT II. SCENE I.

WHAT a confounded pace we have come! but you are always the ſame, ſir. You proceed in the attack of a miſtreſs, with as much vigour, and activity, as you ſtorm a garriſon.

Diſpatch is the ſoul of every undertaking: I hate all that ſavours of coldneſs, and delay. In a purſuit, ſo inſipidly carried on, the ſpirits relax, and, tho' you gain your ends, you ſcarce reliſh the ſucceſs.—What do you ſmile at, Sancho?

You expect the truth, ſir?

You know I do. I cannot brook falſhood, even in the verieſt trifles; leſt the mind be inſen⯑ſibly led on to practiſe it in material affairs, and thereby entail on itſelf ſuch a reproach, as moſt diſgraces manhood.

Why then, ſir, I ſmiled at the oddity of your amours. Firſt, to fall in love with one you hardly ever ſaw; and then, make ſuch haſte to marry one, you never ſaw. We poor mortals have another method.

Your reflections, like thoſe of the world in general, are too haſty and ſuperficial; not know⯑ing my motives, you wonder at my conduct. How many faultleſs characters, thro' too ſevere, and premature concluſions, have had a ſhade drawn over them, which time, and reaſon, have, at laſt, wholly removed!

Sir, I aſk pardon, if I have offended,

You cannot eaſily offend. You have gain'd on my temper, and won an indulgence, which your courage and fidelity well deſerve.

But, ſir, you are earlier, than you ex⯑pected, by an hour almoſt.

'Tis true.

Then ſuppoſe, ſir, you return to the poſt⯑houſe, and lay aſide theſe unneceſſary implements for walking; then, if you pleaſe, you may relieve your legs a little more; I can ſtay in the houſe, to be ready, when Erneſto comes, according to your orders.

I like your counſel well—follow me.

Come, Guzman, now we may venture to quit our dens, take a little freſh air, and begin chace.

Chace! now the ſun is ſet. Of what, ſir? Owls, or bats? Call you this making love?—'Tis much more like making war—marching all night in arms, as if we were going to beat up the enemies quarters, on a forlorn hope.

Would not you venture as much for Roſa?

No, in good faith, ſir, I ſhall venture enough, if I marry her; I'll run no hazards be⯑fore hand.

That's from your fear, not your prudence.

Sir, you may call it what you pleaſe, but I dare boldly ſay, there lives not a more valiant man in the world, than myſelf, while danger keeps at diſtance; but when faucily it preſſes on me, [19] then, I confeſs, I have a certain tenderneſs for life, which checks my ardour, and inclines my prudence to make a timely retreat.

How civil your ſtile is to yourſelf!—and how prettily you ſoften that harſh word, cowar⯑dice!—but, I think, I have ſeen your valour pleas'd to run away, when danger has not been ſo very preſſing.

It may not have appear'd ſo, ſir, to com⯑mon eyes; but I have ſuch a piercing ſight, that I can diſcover perils at a greater diſtance than any man in Spain.—Other people (poor ſouls!) not be⯑ing bleſſed with ſuch perſpicuity, do not deſcry dangers, time enough to ſhun 'em, and then their ſtruggling is by the injudicious world called cou⯑rage.

A man truly valiant will always remain ſo.

A man wiſely valiant will avoid all the danger he can.

You have more light, than heat, I'll allow, Guzman. But your humour, and honeſty, make amends for your want of courage.

I have courage enough for the profeſſion my parents deſign'd me for.

What was: that?

A lawyer. I could have put on rare an⯑ger in my client's ſight, and, when he was gone, have hugged the advocate of the oppoſite party; and, if I don't miſtake, ſir, thoſe gentry ſell their breath, much dearer than you gentlemen ſoldiers ſell your blood; 'tis true, you get honour—a fine light food, for delicate appetites!—yet I have known ſome captains of plain ſtomachs faſt upon it.

The knave's right—but how I trifle time! What's this to my embarraſſments in love?—How ſhall I contrive to hear from my Honoria?—Shall I venture to my old haunts?—I dare not—To what purpoſe ſhould I, unleſs ſhe were pre-adviſed of [20] it? This laſt unhappy accident! left to ſolitude, and thought—and that loaded with the diſagree⯑able reflection of having ſhed another's blood!—which (tho' it chanced in ſelf-defence) my reaſon, and education, will not let me eaſily digeſt.—Yet, Honoria! ſhe muſt be mine; and I will leave no peril unencounter'd, to obtain her.—If, after all, I fail—if I muſt loſe her, at leaſt, I will deſerve her.

I am tired with waiting.

He cannot be long now, ſir, ſurely.

I'll take another minute's turn—go you back to the inn, and wait me there—

I ſcarce can tell the name of any place, I ſee. 'Tis ſo long, ſince I was in this city, I have loſt all my meaſures of it.

Do my eyes cheat me, or is that my com⯑rade, when I firſt bore arms? My friend Antonio? If it be he, as ſure it muſt, I cannot dread to know him.

Florio!

My honour'd friend!—

You were too long in recollecting me—Your friendſhip cannot cool?

Never—but your preſence here, ſo unex⯑pected, made me diſbelieve my ſight.—When came you to town?

I juſt now arrived.

I rejoice to ſee you; but ſhould have thought it more likely to hear of you at court, purſuing the recompence due to your deſerts.

An employment I am neither fond, nor capable of. I cannot ſue, even for my right. 'Tis my-ambition to merit, but not ſolicit reward. The dignity of honour ſuffers in it. If praiſe, and advancement, do not follow our ſervices, we [21] muſt learn to pay ourſelves, by a noble contempt of worldly favours.

A ſevere rule indeed, which virtue pre⯑ſcribes to herſelf!—to be ſo backward in claiming a reward, ſhe is ſo eager to deſerve.

By no means. She is more hurt in being reduced to beg reward, than ſhe can be in the want of it—Beſides, a true ſubject hazards his life in the ſervice of his king and country, for the advancement of their honour and intereſt ſolely; he, who does it with a view to his own, deſerves neither praiſe, nor reward.

The ſame great, and generous ſpirit, as ever. I honour the day, which introduced me to the knowledge of ſo much worth.

What merit I have, I can but faintly call my own—I inherit it from a father, whoſe example of courage, and integrity, it had been ſcandalous in a ſon not to have imitated.

This is my houſe, at preſent, Antonio—Will you honour it, by calling it your's? Tho' you muſt excuſe many deficiencies in your enter⯑tainment. I am but in an ill condition, at pre⯑ſent, to receive the honour of ſuch a gueſt; hav⯑ing, by an unhappy accident, been obliged, lately, to change my uſual place of reſidence, and keep myſelf concealed.

Concealed!—but that is for a future hour, and more ſuitable place.—I muſt however decline your kind offer a while, being forced to remain hereabouts, leſt I ſhould miſs the return of one, whom I ſent to my brother-in-law's.

You ſurprize me—Have you a brother-in-law in Seville?

I have. I came hither a married man, as far as friends could make me.

Since then it ſo imports you not to miſs your ſervant, I will keep you company here, 'till [22] his arrival; then lead you to ſome refreſhment.—You have had a tedious and perilous campaign in Flanders.—I long, methinks, Antonio, to hear ſome account of your actions therein, of which fame ſpeaks loudly, but not diſtinctly.—Could you not oblige me, while you are waiting for your ſer⯑vant—

Excuſe me—I cannot—if there be any merit in my behaviour, my own breath would fully it—if not, the report is not fit for a friend's ear.—But if you chuſe to fill up the time, I'll give you an adventure of mine, which, I fancy, will repay your attention.

You will oblige me.

And, when 'tis finiſhed, you will wonder how, with ſuch a prepoſſeſſion in my heart, I ſhould be induced to come here, to marry a ſtranger.

Your preface awakes my curioſity—to the ſtory, I beſeech you.

On the evening, following that glorious day, whereon the Duke of Alva gain'd ſuch diſ⯑tinguiſh'd reputation, I was diſpatch'd with ſome horſe, to cover the Limbourg frontiers, which were too much expoſed to the enemy's inroads.—We were ſcarce arrived, when I receiv'd intelligence, that a party of them (about 200 cavalry) were newly lodged in a village, three leagues off. We inſtantly ſounded to horſe, and, not to trouble you with particulars, ſo great was our expedition, that, by day-break, their quarters were on fire.

You experienced the utility of your own maxim, that diligence in execution is the miſtreſs of ſucceſs.

Our foes made but faint reſiſtance—ſome were ſlain,—ſome fled to give alarm to their re⯑ſerves in quarters remote.—The tumult nigh over. I [...] to a lofty ſtructure, ſuppoſing it [23] was their leader's quarter—with intention to pre⯑ſerve him from the ſoldier's rage, and his build⯑ing from the fire—but what was my ſurprize, when, entering a pavilion in the garden, I beheld a woman of a matchleſs form ſtretched on the marble floor!

Your heart ſuffered then, I am ſure—Pity and bravery always dwell together.

I felt, what I cannot deſcribe—tho', at firſt, I believ'd her dead, yet her appearance inſpir'd me with ſuch awe, and reverence, that I could not, without trembling, venture to approach her.—I knelt, and raiſed her in my arms, when ſtrait a ſigh ſtole from her. I knew it not for a ſound of grief, while it was a ſign of life. At laſt, ſhe open'd her lovely eyes, and beam'd ſuch looks (ſpite of her ſad ſituation) as I had ne'er expe⯑rienced. Awhile I was held mute with wonder, and delight, when a poniard fell from her fair hand—as if ſhe only wanted arms aſleep, and waking truſted to her eyes.—My ſenſations en⯑creaſed each moment;—when I recover'd power to ſpeak, I ſaid—I know not what—It was all extaſy, yet it had its riſe in ſincerity.—She endea⯑vour'd to reply, but could not—yet ſhe looked ſuch ſweet ſurprize—ſuch gratitude—tho' mixed with fear—

I am all impatience.

I renewed my ardent profeſſions—offer'd my life for the recovery of her's—I labour'd to know her ſtory—The crimſon in her cheeks ſeemed reviving, and her ſpeech returning, when a ſud⯑den loud blaſt of trumpets, and outcry of my men, alarmed me. They were charged with ſquadrons of freſh horſe, whom the fugitives had called from neigbouring villages. I longed to ſtay with her—I panted to be with them—my powers, for a time, were ſuſpended—but awaking [24] to that ſenſe of honour, from which no claim ſhould alienate a ſoldier, I tore myſelf away. The ſituation of my mind added to my uſual heat—I was deſperate in fight, and ſuſtained ſo many wounds, that I ſwooned with loſs of blood, while my ſoldiers compleated the victory, and brought me off.

I feel for you in all.

My outward wounds were ſlight, and quickly healed; but thoſe within, deep, and ſtill ſo [...]ly bleeding. My heart, and happineſs ſeem'd utterly to have forſaken me. My enquiries after her were vain, and I returned to my poſt in the army, loaded with the deſpair of ever ſeeing her again, from whom my aff [...]ctions can never ſtray.

You have, indeed, given me cauſe for concern, as well as wonder.—So engaged, how comes this ſtrange marriage? From what induce⯑ments? Your mind is above the general tempta⯑tions of the world.

From duty, gratitude, and juſtice—Long before this event, I was contracted to the lady, whom I now come to marry, by the Marquis D'Oliverc, whoſe patronage and friendſhip, from my infancy, would render my diſobedience to a re⯑commendation of his highly improper.—Beſides, when he firſt propoſed this match, my heart was wholly diſengaged—now there is no retracting.

A ſtrange, and perplexing adventure truly!—yet may I not aſk who the lady is in Seville, that is deſtined to call ſo much merit her's?

To you I have no reſerve—ſhe is the ſiſter of—

Only my ſervant.

Guzman—Guzman! beg Antonio to diſpatch him quick.

Preſently—Well, Erneſto, what news?

I have delivered your letter, ſir, into your brother-in-law's own hands—He ſeemed concerned at the uncertainty of your time of arriving; which I, in ſome meaſure, removed, aſſuring him, you would undoubtedly ſee him this night. He kiſſes your hands, and expects you with impatience. This letter contains his full meaning—As to your bride, ſir—the moſt accompliſh'd creature!—

You have ſeen her then?

My being of your train gave me the privi⯑lege of a domeſtick, to ſee her in her chamber⯑dreſs, without a veil; which, o'my conſcience, I think, could only be contrived to cover faults, or hide beauties.

Is ſhe ſo handſome?

I never ſaw ſuch another, ſir—ſuch a ſhape! ſuch eyes!—your Bruſſels-beauties, that you uſed to brag of ſo, are nothing to her.—Fortune ſhall chuſe me a wife—I'll have no concern with love, or judgment.—But I'll ſay no more, ſir.—Only ſee her—This maſter-key, ſir, delivered by your brother with great dignity, you are deſir'd to re⯑ceive, as an earneſt of that intereſt and authority, with which you are inveſted in the family, on the intended alliance. It commands all the apart⯑ments prepar'd for your reception—a ſeperate quarter, that opens on St. Vincent's ſtreet—nobly furniſhed indeed!

Enough—You'll find Sancho here in the poſt-houſe; ſend him off with my things, and do you wait for me.

There's ſome ill near, when this bird ap⯑pears—ſhe's ominous.

Where's your maſter, Guzman?

Don't you ſee him?—You've liv'd too long unmarried.

Sir, ſomething in private—requires haſte—

What now? more misfortunes?

The tablets will inſtruct you, Sir.

You're not going, Roſa?—ſtay for an anſwer—

'Tis a command, not a queſtion, puppy.

Short and ſweet, Roſa!

Diſtraction!—Will you permit me to re⯑tire a moment?

By all means—I'll wait upon you in, and ſtay your leiſure.

Ay, I was ſure it was ſome diſaſter, it came ſo haſtily and unſought for. Some command from our heroine—I'll be hanged, if it don't end in fighting. My mind's prophetic in theſe matters—People of their rank generally make love by wrote, and it never fails to end in miſchief. Thoſe little black books raiſe more devils, and deſtructi⯑on, than all the conjurer's circles in the univerſe—Curſe o'the inventer of that damn'd artifice of paint⯑ing words, and talking to our eyes!—If I were to have a hundred daughters, not one of them ſhould ever learn to read or write.—'Tis a quick diſpatch, for here ſhe comes again.

What not a word, Roſa?—a kind Glance, at leaſt—grown cruel!

This is no time for fooling.

Nay, if you're in your airs—tho' now I think on't better, I will do the honors of our ſtreet, and ſee you to the end of it. I hate being unpolite.

Pry'thee, let go—I ſhall be well helped up with ſuch a ſquire as you. If ſome wandering knight ſhould offer to take your damſel, what would you do?

Uſe no weapon, but a torch—throw aſide your veil and ſhew him your face, and that would guard us both.

D'ye think it would frighten him then?

No, charm him, Roſa,

Well, ſuch as it is, I'll venture it, without endangering your well-known valour.

I muſt not be denied.

You muſt.

I will not.—The diſorder and confuſion in your looks, the hurry of your ſpirits, all convince me, ſome danger attends your undertaking—

None, that a friend like you, ſhall ſhare.

Has Florio then forgot, or dares he violate the laws of holy friendſhip? Have you not often ſhar'd my griefs, and perils, and muſt I be denied?—Why arrogate the glory to yourſelf?

At any time, but this—Your buſineſs here in Seville was to ſeek happineſs, not miſery. I cannot bear to be your obſtacle—Leave me, my friend, I beg.

I cannot—dare not leave you thus—ſome deſperate engagement calls you—my happineſs [28] can but be poſtpon'd, not deſtroyed. And think you I could enjoy it, could reliſh any bliſs, loaded with the reflection, that I had abandon'd my friend, when moſt he needed my aſſiſtance?

I could forego my own enjoyments, but cannot hazard yours.

You dare not truſt me with the buſineſs.

Think you my refuſal can ariſe from diſ⯑truſt of my Antonio's heart?—Read there.

"Unleſs you can venture to be under the ſummer-houſe-window, at nine this evening, expect no more to ſee, or hear from her, whoſe heart your conſtancy has merited. Yet reflect on your ſituation, and come not unattended by a truſty friend, as you value our mutual peace."

What oppoſes your union?

A tyrant-brother, whoſe enmity to me (ſprung from ill grounded ſuſpicion, and revenge) is ſo increaſed by a late accident, which I'll tell you at a fitter time, that he ſeeks all occaſions to de⯑ſtroy our loves, and reach my life.

Enough—I ſee the exigence—Obey your miſtreſs's injunction—You cannot want that friend, while I am near.—Wrong me not, Florio, by ano⯑ther refuſal.—I will partake your difficulties, or here ends an intercourſe, which friendſhip has ſanctified for years.

Your generous mind will be obeyed—tho' 'tis with reluctance I accept the aid I glory in.

No formal ſpeeches—to the buſineſs—the lady waits—time calls—I cannot be happy, till you are ſo—Our joys muſt be mutual, or they are incompleat;

ACT III. SCENE I.

THE appointed hour is near, couſin.

I ſhould ſuppoſe it come, 'tis night already.

And, thanks to kind ſtars, ſufficiently dark.

Thanks to kind clouds you wou'd ſay,

for ſtars, on this occaſion, wou'd not much befriend us—My dear Honoria, rouze yourſelf; don't flinch, now you are come to the field of action: ſuch ſchemes as theſe are the only means a woman has to ſhew her ſpirit; and, on my con⯑ſcience, I verily believe 'tis only the want of op⯑portunity to ſhew ourſelves, that makes the fool⯑iſh world charge us with want of courage.

You will be careful then, my ſweet girl; you, and Roſa, will watch very narrowly above; for if my hot-brain'd brother ſhould ſurprize us—

Let us alone to play the centinels—I'll warrant—

I'm confident, madam, he's abroad, and won't return in a hurry: for I heard him ſay he ſhou'd paſs part of the evening at the corregidor's, and you know he never comes from thence very early.

But in the preſent ſtate of his mind, de⯑termin'd as he is on the immediate ruin of my peace, and expecting Antonio every hour, there is no anſwering for him—Wou'd Florio were come!

Is it not rather too early in the evening for adventures of this nature?

I think 'tis always ſo.

'Tis the exact hour ſhe appointed.

How dark 'tis grown o' th' ſudden! not a ſingle ſtar to be perceiv'd!

So much the better; when I fight, I de⯑ſire to have no ſpectators of my courage.

This darkneſs is popitious—may it but continue a little!—Antonio, I'll ſtep before, and give the ſign—you ſtay here, till you hear the door open, then come on, and follow me.—

The corregidor's houſe is indeed noble, and the gardens elegantly laid out.

The walks and fountains ſo entice me, I weary myſelf, before I am able to leave 'em.

We have out-ſtay'd our time, we'll there⯑fore take the ſhorter way home; the back door of my garden is at hand. How dark it is!

Not yet! I fear the riſing moon, and that wou'd betray all.

I think I hear the uſual ſignal. Who's there?

'Tis I.

You are not alone, I hope.

No, I am doubly guarded.

Not that you know of.

'Tis well,—I'll open the door immediately.

I think we ſhou'd be near the garden gate now.

She muſt be ready, by this time; why doſt thou breathe ſo ſhort, coward?

Either I ſpy more than ourſelves, or elſe my fears do.

I think ſo too; I'll walk aſide, till they are gone, to avoid ſuſpicion.

So will I, to avoid danger; I have grop'd out a tree, they ſhan't ſay I leave the field however.

Sure, I heard a door open.

I thought ſo too—At this late hour! what can it mean? it cannot ſure be mine!

The door open'd; where are you, friend?

What ſtay you for?

By hell it is, for that's Honoria's voice.

Patience, a moment; and you'll make a clearer diſcovery; ſtand a little aſide.

My love! is it you?

Not he, whom you expect, lady, but a friend who—

Not he! who art thou then? and what ſhadow is that?

I can contain no longer; vile woman, I am thy deſtiny, and his mortal enemy.

My mortal enemy!

Yes, villain, thy life ſhall anſwer this at⯑tempt upon my honour.

Vain man! the life, thou threat'neſt, is guarded by a truſty ſword.

Claſhing of ſwords! my friend's in danger.

More of your crew! Ho, Sylvio—Geraldo, Jaques—thieves!—aſſaſſins!

Bring torches—ho! [Felicia and Roſa leave the ſummer-houſe.

Their ſwords clatter bravely in the dark.

I've loſt my ſword—

What, are you hurt?

I know not.

What, d'ye give back? you will not eaſily evade our juſt reſentments, now the riſing moon aſſiſts us.

Now I ſee him; oh my love, what ſhall we do? my brother will ſacrifice me to his revenge.

Truſt to my honour; I'll redeem you from his cruelty, or periſh. Where's my brave friend?

By your ſide; away—I'll ſecure your re⯑treat.

Yonder's my maſter victorious, and march⯑ing off with his fair prize—Huzza! I'll down, and join the triumph.

No no, tis but a ſcratch!

But while I have been engaged to ſuccour you, the villains have eſcap'd; they were afraid of the light—lean on my arm.

I ſcorn aſſiſtance—I am yet able to revenge my injuries;—I will go ſeek the wicked cauſe—

Be moderate, however, when you meet her.

Moderate!—

Or you will never make diſcovery who theſe people were, nor what their intent. Hear what I have to offer; go in, and make a cool en⯑quiry—fie! how unſeemly is this fury!—I will, mean while, endeavour to trace theſe villains to their dens.

Well, well—I'll try—oh! this ungrateful girl!

Fear not, madam, we will defend you againſt all attempts.

Yes, yes, there they go—and here's An⯑tonio, bringing up the rear; they're but juſt before, ſir; my maſter is bearing her off moſt gallantly; don't loſe ſight of me, and you're ſecure.

He takes me for one of his own party; his miſtake will enable me to harbour them.

I am terrified out of my ſenſes—What can have been the iſſue?

Heaven knows, ma'am; they may be all kill'd; when we return'd to the ſummer-houſe, all was ſilent; not a ſoul there. She's loſt, at beſt.

'Tis poſſible, that, in her fright, ſhe ran to her own apartment, by the other ſtair-caſe.—Let's go ſee—

Stop, ſtop, madam; there's a light, and Don Henriquez with his ſword drawn—What ſhall we do?

Step aſide, behind this door, and liſten to his intentions.

Not to be found, indeed, ſir; we have ſearch'd every room.

Infamous, abandon'd woman! to caſt ſo deep a ſtain upon our honour; if I find her, I'll ſacrifice her blood to the manes of her offended parents.

Hear you, madam?

I do, and tremble.

Where's her woman, villain? Why don't you call her?

Roſa! Roſa!

Defend me! What am I to ſay? Here, ſir.

Where's your miſtreſs?

Sir, ſhe told me, about half an hour ſince, ſhe would go—

Quick—

Into the garden, ſir.

Ay, then my diſgrace is certain, 'tis pub⯑lick, and perpetual infamy is my portion.—This the reward for all my cares!—my inceſſant tor⯑ments!—daily cautions!—hourly admonitions! A man had better have to rule beaſts of prey, than women—they have not half their deſigns—their cruelty—ingratitude! She hath buried my heart in ſorrow, and engraven diſhonour on the tomb of her anceſtors.—She ſtole away!—her accomplices eſcaped!—and no means of revenge to be found! Oh! that creatures, which are but feathers in the ſcale of our enjoyments, ſhou'd add ſuch weight to our anxieties and torments!

Don Henriquez—I have done wonders in your behalf, for ſo ſhort a time—

Tell me—tell me—I burn with impa⯑tience—

I have harbour'd the whole gang.

You revive me.—

Have mark'd the very houſe.—

How—Where?—gratify me, quick——

I ſoon diſcover'd ſome, whom I ſuſpected to be the villains; but unable ſingly to attack 'em, I kept a little diſtance, to obſerve which way they took, when one of their party, who was be⯑hind the reſt, confirm'd me in my ſuſpicions; miſtaking me for one of his own crew, he bade me come on, ſaying his maſter was but juſt before—

Good! good!

We had not paſs'd above two ſtreets, before he ſtopp'd; and at the ſecond houſe beyond the church in St. Jago's ſtreet, he enter'd, and bid me follow—

The houſe, where Don Florio is con⯑ceal'd, madam.

I ſtopping to obſerve it well, he grew aware of having ſpoke to a ſtranger, ran into the houſe, and lock'd the door. I notic'd it particu⯑larly, and can't miſs it.

Then, ere this poſſibly they have eſcaped.

That is not likely; Where elſe can they take refuge, at this time of night, in Seville? No—no—we have them ſafe, I'll engage.—

You have given me new life; let me but enjoy my revenge, and, tho' the next moment were my laſt, I cou'd die contented. Call all my ſervants—I will beſiege that impious dwelling; I'll reduce that theatre of my diſgrace to aſhes.

Again in theſe mad fits! for ſhame, con⯑ſult your reaſon; how wild and impracticable were the attempt, to aſſail a houſe at this time of night in a well govern'd city! it would only expoſe your perſon and fortune to the rigour of the law, pub⯑liſh your diſhonour, and fruſtrate your revenge for ever.

And wou'd you have me tamely ſtay, till theſe ruffians, who have invaded my houſe, af⯑fronted [36] my perſon, and ſtole my ſiſter, may eſcape my vengeance?

Be but rul'd by me, I'll ſhew you the ſureſt and neareſt way to gain it; I'll inſtantly to the corregidor's, for the aid of his authority, to ſecure them for the preſent, and to-morrow give 'em up to the law.

Away—away—Conceive you I will wait ſuch ſlow deciſions? Submit a perſonal injury to the tame formal law? Oh! no; my honour chal⯑lenges redreſs from my own arm.

Honour conſiſts in reaſon, and in juſtice, not in frantick violence—that only is your idol. I pray be calm—reflect—all my deſign is but to conceal the ſhame, till we have the villains in our power; which cannot be brought about, by any means, ſo ſure, as by demanding juſtice againſt the aſſaulters of your houſe and perſon; truſt to my conduct; I'll be ſpeedier than you can think, and bring you ſatisfaction inſtantly.

Cou'd you fly, you wou'd move too ſlow for my deſires—Oh! how tedious are the moments meaſur'd by revenge!

I'll venture, tho' I periſh, ma'am, and give her warning of their deſigns; I'm ſure, ſhe's there,—this houſe is in ſuch confuſion, I can run, without being miſs'd.

Fly, brave girl! and I'll retire to Honoria's chamber, till your return.

Yet why? Why am I to be controul'd by other's wills? Why rul'd by other's counſels? Are not my own diſcretion, and wiſdom, ſufficient arbi⯑tors? I'll after, and, at all events, ſacrifice the deſtroyers of my glory; I'll hunt them out, tho' they were buried in the center; or failing, I will withdraw me from the world. Inſulted and expos'd, I cannot ſubmit myſelf an object of pub⯑lick [37] ridicule, and contempt; much leſs, can I bear the ſight of him, who will expect a ſpotleſs ſiſter at my hands.

Sir, Don Antonio is juſt arriv'd—

Who, villain, who?

Don Antonio, ſir, your brother-in-law; Sylvio has conducted him to my lady's antecham⯑ber, and bade me give you notice of it.

There my ſhames begin—there they ſtrike deep—this circumſtance alone was wanting to compleat my infamy—What ſhall I ſay? What do? He'll aſk me for his wife—can I tell him, ſhe is—Oh! curſed woman! where ſhall I find a heart, a tongue, a voice, a face—

Your commands, ſir—'tis poſſible, Don Antonio may think it long.—

Plague, and the devil!—why tell him—tell him—ſay you can't find me.

I will avoid him; I'll hide myſelf, 'till he's gone—I cannot bear to ſee him—when he finds no one here to entertain him, he may leave the houſe offended: let him, with my whole heart; I will undergo any cenſure, rather than be the reporter of my own diſgrace.

My friend, and his miſtreſs, ſafely lodg'd, I may now attend to my own engagements. Yet this ſtrange uſage perplexes me; ſuff'ring me to wait thus long, on my firſt arrival!

I ſwear, I am amaz'd, ſir. 'Tis not above two hours, ſince I ſaw a numerous family here, and, to all appearance, well order'd; now the pages bolt out of their doors, then ſtart back into their holes, like rabbits in a warren; the maids too, as we enter'd, were all peeping out of the garret windows, like the upper tier of ordnance in a ſhip—all diſorder! but here comes the ſervant, you ſent in.—

Friend, where's your maſter?

I can't tell, indeed, ſir, he's not to be found.

Where's his ſiſter?

Truly, I don't know, ſir; we men-ſer⯑vants have little concern with the lady's quarters.

Humph!—are you ſure, Erneſto, you have not brought me to a wrong houſe?

If you are ſure we are awake, ſir, then am I certain this is the very houſe wherein, this after⯑noon, I ſaw and ſpoke both with Don Henriquez and your bride; by the ſame token, there was a lady with her in a veil; and this identical room is the antechamber to your bride's apartment.

Then, what can all this mean? I dare not ſuppoſe the Marquis wou'd be ſo importunate to have me ſacrific'd to ſuch a creature, as her own brother is aſham'd to ſhew me.

Don't fear, ſir,—you may ſoon be ſet right, in that point; for yonder I ſee her in the inner room, lying on her couch, and reading: tho' her face is turn'd the other way, I'll ſwear to her ſhape, and cloaths.

Are you quite certain it is ſhe?

There are not many like her, ſir.

Since you are ſure, I'll venture in, with⯑out her brother's introduction.

Soft, ſir, ſhe ſaves you the trouble, and is coming this way.

In ſhort 'tis to no purpoſe, my concern for Honoria robs me of all attention.

Heavens! that lovely form, which, fear⯑ing my revolt, appears to prove my conſtancy and truth.

Defend me! who is this? Does my mind bear falſe witneſs, or am I enchanted?

If it be but a viſion—

Dear! dear! what fit of frenzy is this? Why, ſir, 'tis Honoria—no viſion—but a lovely living woman, and your deſtin'd bride.

'Tis he indeed! I'm all amazement—

The bleſſing is too mighty for my faith.

Oh! never conſult faith about it, ſir; ap⯑proach, and truſt your ſenſe.

And does he come to wed Honoria? This her intended huſband? What myſtery is this, and how to be unravell'd?

If yet Antonio be not quite forgot—

The ſervant's error has miſled him; he takes me for Honoria; how ſhall I act? Had I not better, for her ſake, ſtill favour the deceit? So gain ſome time, till ſhe returns, or hear how ſhe is diſpos'd of! It ſhall be ſo—I'll treſpaſs a few moments on the hazard of Henriquez's com⯑ing to undeceive him, ſound Antonio's ſentiments, then get off as well as my heart will let me.

Thou dear reſemblance of her, whom my ſoul doats on, in pity, ſpeak—Say, art thou that [40] lovely maid, to whom I once preſum'd to pay the trueſt vows of love?

I am, Antonio, that very ſhe, whoſe ſafety, and whoſe honour, you made your generous care; and to whom you paid ſome haſty vows of love.

And is it poſſible, that fortune has com⯑pleated, what affection began?

I cannot but acknowledge ſhe has been peculiarly propitious to you; and I ſhou'd make an ill return to thoſe vows, did I not con⯑gratulate you on the blind Goddeſs's amazing bounty, that has given you, in the wife to whom you have engag'd yourſelf, the only woman you can love.

No doubt my conduct may ſeem ſtrange, yet hear me ſpeak—

And ſwear again eternal love—and breath again thoſe ardent proteſtations, which were in⯑tended for me alone, and not to be transferr'd to an unknown fair?—

By my hopes of future happineſs, I vow, that, long ere I beheld thoſe eyes—

We have not time for explanations now; a further conference wou'd be improper, till my brother's ſanction has allow'd our interview.

Leave me not, deareſt lady, in this uncer⯑tainty—give me the ſmalleſt hope, that you have ever thought your ſervant worthy a remembrance; then, if I cannot juſtify myſelf, diſcard, deſpiſe me utterly.

Eſteem, that ſprings from gratitude, can⯑not eaſily decay—let that ſuffice; and, if you are the ſame Antonio, generous, and noble, as you firſt ſhew'd to me, when in my diſtreſs'd ſituation—But how am I tranſgreſſing? Honoria muſt act, as be⯑comes Don Henriquez's ſiſter; in his abſence, longer diſcourſe wou'd be improper; our next meeting may be leſs reſtrain'd. [So, my mind is ſome⯑thing [41] eaſier, and his penetrating Donſhip has not interrupted us.

To that next meeting then will I look for⯑ward, and hope ſhall be my comforter, for that ſhe did not deny me.—Perfection of prudence, as of lovelineſs! conſcious that I can juſtify my⯑ſelf in honour, and integrity, I have no doubt of happineſs.

Sure he has learn'd the whole, e'er this, and is gone to meditate revenge.

Noble Don Henriquez—

O curſe! he's here ſtill; I cannot fly him now.

Amazement! avoid a friend that's come ſo long a journey to caſt himſelf at your fair ſiſter's feet!

Ay, now the ſtorm breaks—What ſhall I ſay to him?

You may eaſily ſuppoſe, ſir, I am ſomewhat diſconcerted—that you ſhou'd find my houſe in ſuch diſorder—ſo unprepar'd for the honour of ſo brave a gueſt—

I am indeed ſurpriz'd—beyond what I can expreſs—I ſcarce imagin'd, Don Henriquez, your ſiſter cou'd have been—

Torture! plagues!

—it is not in a brother's power, Antonio, to make a ſiſter bet⯑ter, than—

In your's it cannot be—I never ſaw a more accompliſh'd creature.

Ha! what means he?

Notwithſtanding your abſence, I have juſt enjoy'd the happineſs of an interview; ſhe ſo far exceeds the reſt of her ſex I ever ſaw, her beauty, wit, and diſcretion, are ſo excellent, all favourable circumſtances join to make me bleſs this meeting.

How am I to underſtand this? Can he be in earneſt? I will, if poſſible, contain myſelf, and try to fathom this.

You have then ſeen, and entertained my ſiſter, ſir?

I have, and with ſuch full delight, that I think all the pains and toils of my paſt life exqui⯑ſitely rewarded in thoſe few moments of her con⯑verſation; I wiſh'd them to be prolong'd, but her diſcretion wou'd not ſuffer too long a viſit, in your abſence: and I cou'd not but adore the prudence, that robb'd me of ſuch tranſcendant pleaſure.

I am more and more confounded.

She might have ſpar'd that caution, ſir, ſince with you—ſhe knew my ſentiments—wou'd I cou'd get him away!

Shall I have the pleaſure to conduct you to your chamber? I fear 'tis late, and you want reſt.

I cou'd not think of troubling you, nor indeed any one, at preſent, being oblig'd, late as it is, to ſee a friend, before I go to reſt.

Shall I attend you?

By no means—I muſt not ſuffer it; I'll re⯑turn in an hour, at fartheſt.

Take your own time; you're wholly maſ⯑ter here.

I thank you ſir—adieu! [I never ſaw a man ſo diſcompos'd, whatever the matter is—Erneſto, bid Sancho attend me out, and ſtay you in my apartment till I return.]

How am I to interpret all this? One myſ⯑tery breeds another; ſo delighted with her con⯑verſation, ſo enamour'd of her form! he ſeem'd in earneſt;—and then to make ſuch a ſudden ſally abroad, after a long journey too, in a place where I ſhou'd ſuppoſe him an utter ſtranger, and not ſuf⯑fer me to accompany him—but I'll bear no more ſuſpence; I'll to my ſiſter's chamber, and unriddle the whole.

Come away, Don Henriquez; diſpatch, all's prepar'd; our kinſman, the corregidor, waits you with a ſtrong band of Alguazils.

Huſh! Don Antonio and his people are arriv'd—ſome one may overhear us—

Has he diſcover'd your ſiſter's abſence?

I don't know—I think not.—

Away then, to recover her; we have not a moment to loſe.

Pray, ſtay a little: I labour with a doubt, will burſt me, if not clear'd.

Are you mad? Will you permit ſuch vil⯑lains to eſcape, and laugh at us for ever? Now's your only time—they will depend on our lying quiet till morning—away—you muſt not ſtay an inſtant.

Well, well—I go—I will—

ACT IV. SCENE I.

WAS ever ſuch a diſtreſsful miſtake!

Villain, thou haſt ruin'd us; where was thy ſoul? Had fear utterly baniſh'd it? Left thee not a grain of common ſenſe? And why did you not let me know it, as ſoon as we were come into the houſe?

Lack-a-day, ſir, what could you have done, if you had known it then?

Have ſallied out, raſcal, and kill'd the rogue, in whoſe power thou haſt put it to ruin us; e'er this, perhaps, he has acquainted Don Henriquez—and we may, every moment, expect the ſevereſt effects of rage, and malice, ſeconded by the appearance of juſtice—Curſe on all cowards! better far be ſerv'd by fools, and knaves.

Why, ſir, is it my fault, that I am not a cat? How could I tell, in the dark, whether that raſcal was a knight errant, or a knight recreant? I took him for a friend. Were it not for ſuch accidents as theſe that mock man's forecaſt, the deſtinies would never have had a place among the deities.

Peace, cowardly, ſententious ſlave! but that I would not diſgrace my ſword with ſuch baſe blood, thou ſhould'ſt not have a moment to live.

A thouſand thanks then to my baſe blood, for ſaving my noble fleſh.

For heav'n's ſake, Florio, be pacified, and let us conſider of ſome means to extricate ourſelves; we muſt not ſtay here; my brother will be upon us inſtantly.

To convey you ſafely hence is my only care; my own danger I regard not. I will my⯑ſelf conduct you to ſome ſhelter from his barbar⯑ous temper.

You ſhould not, for the world. Think what would be the conſequence, ſhould you be found by the officers of juſtice; that would com⯑pleat our calamities.

Run, raſcal, and fetch a chair immediately.

A pretty errand at this time of night! thoſe rogues of chairmen are mighty good-natur'd; they're likely to obey a ſervant's orders, after eleven o'clock.

But then, to hazard you alone!

The danger in that is not half ſo terrify⯑ing, as being found here;—admit there were no cauſe to fear the ſad effects of cruelty, and re⯑venge, yet being ſeen in your houſe would be in⯑terpreted into all that calumny could invent.

Tho' the complexion of your brother's malice were as black as hell, it could not caſt a ſtain on innocence like your's.

Alas! my Florio, the unhappy are always in the wrong, and ſlander, once propagated, never dies. Why did I leave my brother's houſe? Why engage your love and tenderneſs in an adventure, that may prove your ruin?

Depriv'd of you, I live but to be miſerable.

The chair is come, ſir, juſt as I expected.

Where is it?

Ev'n where it was. The chairmen are ſo deeply engaged at cards, they ſwear they'll not ſtir for all the Dons in Seville.

Raſcals!—I'll have 'em, if I drag 'em hi⯑ther.

My Florio, ſtay; what mean you? O heav'ns! he'll meet my enrag'd brother, and the officers; then I ſhall be utterly miſerable—

As much averſion as I have, madam, to throwing myſelf in harm's way, yet I am really ſo concern'd at the miſtake I have made, that I almoſt wiſh I had endur'd a few blows, rather than have brought ſuch a diſtreſs upon you—

Prithee peace!

Where is my worthy friend?

Did not you meet him at the door, ſir?

No.

He went out but juſt before you came in, ſir.

Madam, I could not think of ſeeking reſt, till I had return'd to inform myſelf of your's, and my noble friend's ſtate of mind; and to offer my future ſervices, whenever you require them.

Oh! madam!

Heav'ns, Roſa, you here!

It's a mercy, I am here, madam—for, thro' fear of being traced, and my intelligence prevent⯑ed, I have taken ſo many ſtrange, round-about turnings and windings, I almoſt loſt myſelf.

But what diſaſter brings you?

A terrible one, madam,—you're found out, and purſued—Don Juan, by the help of the moon, and a miſtake of ſome of your party, trac'd you to this houſe, and, in my hearing, informed your [47] brother of the whole; who is coming with the cor⯑regidor and officers, to ſeize all that ſhall be found within theſe walls.

O unfortunate!

Away madam, or you're caught.

What a torrent of woes am I plung'd in! my brother's cruel fury has, I doubt not, aſperfed my name with infamy, ne'er to be wiped out.—

Let the conſciouſneſs of your innocence make you bold, and defy worldly cenſures.—While your own heart approves, you're ſafe.—

They'll be upon you, before you are aware, madam—

That Florio ſhould be abſent!—and yet to wait his return—

Would be madneſs, madam—

Dare you venture yourſelf with me, ma⯑dam? Upon my honour, I'll protect you, or periſh.

My ſad ſituation, ſir, obliges me to trouble you, and your late conduct gives me confidence. With gratitude, I accept your offer.

I am the obliged, madam. Guzman, go ſeek your maſter, and tell him the danger not al⯑lowing us to wait, I will convey his miſtreſs to a nunnery.

Within religious walls ſhe muſt be ſecure.

And ſtay you, Roſa, to bring me word of his reſolves.

Hold! On recollection, they will not open the monaſtery gates, at this hour, without a ſtrict enquiry, and that would equally betray us.—I have it—the happieſt thought! I will convey you, madam, to my brother-in-law's. His quality and honour will be a ſanction to you, and my wife will with pleaſure pay the offices due to your vir⯑tue, and diſtreſs. The liberty, I take herein, I am confident they will approve and thank me for. Sancho, ſtay here, repreſent all this to Florio, and [48] conduct him with the utmoſt caution and ſecreſy to my apartment; happily I have the key—Erneſto ſits up for me, ſo I ſhan't want it; and, for Florio's better ſecurity, tell him, 'tis my counſel that he comes in a chair.

Continue here, dear Roſa, till you are aſ⯑ſured what ſteps Florio takes; then return home, where I will find ſome means to ſend for intelli⯑gence. To what arts am I reduc'd by my diſ⯑treſſes!

Let the reflection that you deſerve them not, ſupport you to endure them.

Upon my ſoul, a very gallant compliment my maſter makes to your lady and her lover, to quit his brother-in-law's, and leave ſo ſweet a bride as Honoria, alone!—

What, is his miſtreſs's name Honoria, too?

Yes, and if ſhe had but as fair a hand⯑maid as yourſelf, I ſhould ſoon forget our damſels in the Low Countries.

Is not my maſter return'd?

No.

Nor I can't find him—A pretty pickle we are in!—Oons, methinks a man, who has but one grain of wit, wou'd never ſerve a lover; he had better ſerve a mountebank, and be run through the body twice a week, to recommend his balſam.—Our maſters and miſtreſſes have very prudently ſneaked off, and left us to pay the reckoning—Ay, 'tis the ſame in all times and all places—ſo ſpoke the Engliſh poet—

Stay in the entry, till I call you. How now! where's Honoria?

Fled away in the dark, ſir, with a young man of your acquaintance.

Villain, leave fooling.

There's none in the caſe, ſir—She never did wiſer—had ſhe ſtaid your return, ſhe had fall⯑en into thoſe clutches which will immediately gripe you, if you don't make off; Roſa has ran, till ſhe had little breath left, to tell you the corregidor and alguazils are coming to apprehend all in this houſe—ſo ſave yourſelf, ſir—ſhe's ſafe enough—Antonio has taken her to a nunnery.

A nunnery, ſlave!—there ſhe's loſt to me for ever—When once they are inform'd of theſe tranſactions—

Be pacified, ſir, it was ſo deſign'd, at firſt.

But mym aſter has convey'd her, ſir, to his brother-in-law's, whoſe credit and quality are ſo eminent, that the engaging him in your mutual protection, he doubts not, will much avail you—My maſter's bride, too, will aſſiſt to comfort her—I was ordered to wait o'purpoſe to inform you this; and if you will venture to follow them, to aſ⯑ſure you, you may depend on a protection there alſo. I have the key of my maſter's apartments to conduct you privately; and he intreats you will go in a chair, to avoid being queſtion'd, in caſe of any encounter by the way.

My noble friend! with gratitude I embrace his counſel.

Hollo! up with your burden, beaſts, and fall into your half trot

Heavens! we are all taken! ſit ſtill, ſir, for your life.

We have them ſafe.

You find, ſir, I was right.

Some of you ſearch the houſe throughout: ſee what ſervants there are beſide thoſe in the hall. Be quick—we wait you here

This is one of Don Cupid's pretty jeſts: we are ſtruck upon a rock before we put out to ſea.—

What are you, ſirrah?

A creature very like a man, ſir, only I want a heart.

You're pleaſant, ſir—Pray Heav'n your mirth continue!—Who is that woman veil'd?

Let her anſwer for herſelf, if your worſhip pleaſes—She has a tongue; ſet it once a going, and ſhe'll tell more than ſhe knows.

Uncover her face.

Hold, friend!—Couſin, conſider, ſhould it be Honoria, 'twould be terrible to expoſe her here.

'Tis juſt—go, then, and ſpeak in private to her.

'Tis I, ſir, Roſa, attending on my lady; I was commanded by her—

Enough; I underſtand the reſt, and pity her: bid her ſit ſtill; I'll do my beſt to ſave her from diſgrace.

A lucky miſtake: it may ſave Florio from the officers.

They take you, for my miſtreſs, ſir, ſit cloſe; I'll follow, and watch all occaſions for your eſcape.

We have found our wandering nymph, ſir.

Was that Honoria?

No, ſir; her waiting-woman Roſa, fol⯑lowing the chair wherein they were conveying Ho⯑noria to ſome other place.

We arrived luckily—had we ſtaid a moment longer, they had all been fled.

Should we ſee who's in the chair, ſir?

No, forbear; the folly is puniſhment enough to a woman of her rank, without adding that of public diſgrace—

How ſingularly happy it was, that you perſuaded Don Henriquez to expect us at your houſe!—Had he been a witneſs to this diſcovery, his fury had tranſgreſſed all bounds.

'Tis true; and matters of this fort had bet⯑ter be reconciled by the mediation of friends, than either private reſentments, or public trials—Who do you belong to, friend?

To nobody.

Do not you ſerve?

I did; but my maſter has loſt himſelf—

Take his ſword.

Pardon me, ſir—I will ſurrender it.—I cou'd not bear to be diſarm'd by any hand but my own;—This is a weapon, I'd have you to know, of ſuch dreadful execution, that I dare not draw it, but at the call of juſtice.—Sir, as ſoon as you reach home, pleaſe to hang it up in your hall, and write under it,

Thou'rt a pleaſant fellow.

Faith, ſir, I never make myſelf uneaſy for love, riches, or reputation—nor do I pretend to that great ſublety of ſenſe, to feel before I am [52] hurt; and, for the moſt part, I keep out of harm's way—

This fellow's an original.

But of ſo ill a hand, ſir, I am not worth hanging up among the worſt of your worſhip's collection.

An't pleaſe your worſhip, we ſearch'd the ho [...]ſe from the cellar to the garrets, and theſe are all of the family to be found.

Theſe are moſt material—

Take ſpecial care of this varlet, and the waiting-woman; we'll have the truth from them I'll warrant.

Muſt we be priſoners together, Guzman?

It's not ſo bad as the bands of wedlock, Roſa.

Hold! On reflection, we had better not carry Honoria home, till her brother's fury is abated; therefore, if you approve it, couſin, I'll take her to my houſe; as it is our deſire to com⯑poſe this buſineſs quietly, ſhe will be in a kinſ⯑man's houſe with more decency and ſatisfaction, and will have, beſide, my ſiſter to accompany her; and further—

A lovely damſel they are bearing off!—ſome what hairy, 'tis true, about the chin, but that's a ſign of ſtrength. It tickles me to think how like an aſs his worſhip will look, when he opens the ſhell, to find ſo rough a kernel.

And the lights too?

Yes, and your officers—take them all off. I have two of Don Henriquez's ſervants; we ſhall be enough to guard our priſoners, and dark⯑neſs will ſuit us beſt. The more privacy, the [53] ſafer will Honoria's reputation be. Couſin, good night.

You propoſe well, ſir—this buſineſs could not be in better hands than your's—There I'll leave it, and wiſh you a good night.—Officers, follow me.

You may go about your buſineſs, friends; I require none but theſe. Take up the chair, and follow theſe your guides.

Now that we are ſafely arriv'd within theſe walls, madam, diſmiſs your fears; pleaſe to re⯑main here till I bring lights, and acquaint Honoria with the happineſs ſhe will receive in entertaining ſo fair a gueſt.

Acquaint whom, ſir?

My wife Honoria—a little patience—ſhe will attend you.

Is her name Honoria, too? Heaven pre⯑ſerve her from ſuch diſtreſſes as attend her name⯑ſake!—But where am I? ſo far from gueſſing the houſe, that, what with my fears, and darkneſs of the night, I can't conceive what quarter of the town it is: then we have taken ſo many turnings to avoid meeting my cruel brother, and his train;—but I truſt in providence, I am now in a place out of his reach.

I now go, madam, to fetch my wife; your pardon a moment.

And if, as this friendly man flatters me, [54] I can but conciliate a friendſhip here—Save me! my brother's houſe!—this is the quarter joining to my own apartment—I cannot be miſtaken—This the patronage and ſarety I was promis'd!—falſe, falſe man—Yet to what end?—Why ſhould he betray me? My Florio cou'd not mean—Oh, no, let me not think it—but that this man, who look'd like truth itſelf! to whom my Florio thought he could entruſt his happineſs and life—that he ſhould be ſo baſe, to throw me into that danger it was my only care to ſhun!—All's over now—Struggling and hope alike are vain, and all my future life is miſery.

Who can this lady be?

It is, I confeſs, madam, a liberty, which I perhaps ought not to take ſo early, but the diſtreſs of her ſituation will beſt apologize to your generous heart—The lady—but ſhe can beſt relate her ſtory; I will go ſeek Don Henriquez, and en⯑gage his power and intereſt in her behalf.

Madam, I—Heavn's—Honoria! Stay, ſtay Antonio—it is not fit Henriquez ſhould be told—he's gone, and we are undone.

Antonio, ſaid you couſin? what mean you?

Unlucky girl! you are fallen into your huſ⯑band's hands—I have made ſuch diſcoveries—

O Heaven's!

This is the man, to whom you are contrac⯑ted; and, to aggravate our perplexities, the very hero, who preſerv'd my life, and honour; tho', I begin to fear, at the expence of my happineſs.

His behaviour, and motives, then are well explain'd—The man, to whom I was engag'd, has been a witneſs to my concealment, my ſhame—my paſſion for another—and he has uſed this means [55] to bring me to my abandon'd home, that he and my unnatural brother, may wreak their cruel ven⯑geance on me.

I am all amazement—How came you into his hands?

My Florio, to whom he proves an intimate friend, entruſted me to his care; tho' till this mo⯑ment, I never heard his name;—that might have alarm'd me—but every ſlighteſt circumſtance con⯑curs to ruin me.—

But were you diſtracted, to let him bring you here, or blind, not to know your own houſe?

How could I in ſuch darkneſs, ſuch fear, ſuch confuſion? beſide, he brought me in the back way, thro' his own quarter, and had the lights put out, before he introduc'd me—Well, I am pre⯑par'd to ſuffer.

Not in ſuch haſte, my dear girl—while there is life there is hope—I'll ſtruggle to the laſt moment—Don't you remember the miſtake Anto⯑nio's ſervant made this afternoon?

Yes.

Antonio' has done the ſame, in your abſence; and, on your account, I did not diſabuſe him. He has renew'd his vows of love with equal ardour, as when he firſt ſaw me, and ſeem'd tranſported to diſcover his deſtin'd wife in the woman whom he reſcued. There hangs your hope, and mine.

Vain ſuggeſtion! What hope can we have, while this cruel contract remains ſuch a bar to our general happineſs?—Beſides, he has ſeen my bro⯑ther by this time—the whole is out—and ruin cer⯑tain.

Not ſo very certain, as you apprehend. Antonio's friendſhip to Florio, which induc'd him to-protect you, may yet—

Friendſhip! dear Felicia, will that remain unſhaken?—will that ſtand up againſt theſe ſtrange [56] events?—againſt the affront done to his honour? Oh! no—He is not what he was,—his mind, his principles are changed, and I am made the victim to his wrath—

Antonio change! It is impoſſible. Tho' all felicity this world affords ſhould bribe him, it could not tempt him to recede from his pledg'd faith, and honour.—

I forgot her intereſt in him.—Pardon me, my dear Felicia. I ſcarce know what I ſay. My mind is wounded by the variety of my afflictions.

My lovely girl!—excuſe my warmth—but I muſt repeat my aſſertions—If we have yet a chance for happineſs, 'tis founded in his ſteadineſs and truth—The more I contemplate it, the more do my ſpirits and hopes revive. If you cou'd ſe⯑cure yourſelf from your brother, this night only, what between my hero and brother—

But where ſecure myſelf?

Steal home with me.

How?

By the ſecret door, thro' which you have ſo often paſs'd, to meet your Florio—when laſt we uſed it, it was fatal; now it may be fortunate. Once eſcaped, get my brother's aſſent for this night's concealment, and aſk his further advice, and aſſiſtance. I'll anſwer for him; he is gene⯑rous, and kind—My lover brave and wiſe—dry your eyes; O'my credit, you ſhall not weep, till you have more occaſion.

He's here again, couſin.

Suppoſe we undeceive him—

Undeceive him!—

Yes—ſuch a confidence, I am ſure, muſt rivet him to our intereſts.

For heaven's ſake, be cautious. I yet have doubts of his conduct.

I have none. Our hopes in him will be made certainties hereby.

You'll infallibly repent it—

Not yet return'd!—A gueſt in his houſe too, that's come ſo far on ſuch a buſineſs! ſome⯑thing I can't comprehend—I have not yet been able, madam, to find your brother; but think it can't be long e'er he returns; then I'll inform him of the accident, which has made his houſe this lady's ſanctuary.

He perſiſts in his miſtake, I ſee.

'Tis now time, Don Antonio, to inform you—

I cou'd not wait at the corregidor's, tho' I promiſed; my impatience to unfold this riddle burns me up—that Don Antonio ſhould entertain my ſiſter when I was poſitive—By heav'n ſhe's there, and Felicia with her!—were all my raſcals mad, or was it a plot to inſult me? and Don Juan! was he mad too? to ſwear he had trac'd her to another houſe? either I, or they, or all, muſt be poſſeſs'd—Some enchantment reigns here.

Here is Don Henriquez—now I'll inform him, madam, of your ſad ſtory.

Undone utterly!

Don Henriquez—

I ſhall ſink.

This lady, with your ſiſter Honoria—

I know her well, ſir.

Then you will the eaſier excuſe my bold⯑neſs.

In what, ſir?

Now it comes.

That I have been the occaſion of your finding her here, at this late hour.

I underſtand you, ſir; ſhe is deſirous to paſs this night, with Honoria, and aſſiſt her in or⯑dering her nuptial ceremonies.—Ay, in heav'n's name, let her ſtay.

Better than I expected. Courage cuz!

But, ſir, the neceſſity, that induces me to—

Dear ſir, can you ſuppoſe an apology ne⯑ceſſary for Honoria, and her kinſwoman, paſſing a night together?

Is ſhe ſo near a relation of his? 'tis well I told no more of her ſtory.

She knows, I owe her for many favours, and hope to be able to repay them amply.

There—can he ſpeak his deſign much plainer?

For that matter, the cap would fit me, as well as you.

Since it is ſo late, ſir, will you give the ladies leave to retire, for the preſent, to their own chamber? withdraw, Honoria.—

Now Felicia!—

I don't like this ſudden calm—'tis but the fore-runner of another ſtorm; let us fly to ſhelter.

But how, while they remain in the

room, thro' which we muſt paſs?

We muſt watch their departure—'tis probable, he'll wait on Antonio to his apart⯑ment, and we may take that opportunity to eſcape.

I will now go ſee whether Sancho has yet brought Florio to my apartment.

your pardon, ſir, I will but ſtep to my own chamber, and return immediately.

Shall I conduct you, ſir?

I know the way, I thank you, ſir.—[There's ſomething ſtrange in his words, and behaviour, which indicates diſguiſe and artifice. I muſt ſee it expounded.

All the feinds in hell, ſure, cou'd not con⯑jure up ſuch another myſtery. Juan affirms the people, we fought with, had convey'd Honoria away—when I come to ſeek her, at home, ſhe's miſſing, and her waiting wench tells me ſhe went into the garden, whence no one knows of her re⯑turn. Antonio, juſt after, proteſts he ſaw, and entertain'd her in her own apartment, where I certainly now find her, and that ungrateful woman with her.—Theſe are riddles to poſe an Oedipus, and madden a ſtoick—They muſt be explain'd, and ſhall—Yet hold! Antonio ſaid he would return forthwith—here will I wait, 'till he arrives; ſee him ſafe at reſt, and then extort the whole truth from Honoria.—Could I but be convinced my honour were yet unſtain'd, I ſhould, I think, be ſomewhat eaſier. The load might be a little lighter, that's all I'm to expect;

No hope of perfect, or of laſting reſt,

While unrequited love corrodes the breaſt.

ACT V. SCENE I.

DAME Roſa, and brother ſervitor, in there; and now, my friends, open the chair, and let the lady out.

By the darkneſs, this is the condemn'd dungeon, and when we are led out, it will be to execution.

Away, friends; you ſhall be paid be⯑low.

What miſerable den am I thruſt into?—Roſa—Guzman—

I'm here, ſir—and Roſa cloſe to me, or I have loſt my ſenſe of feeling—one drop juſt to keep up my ſpirits—

Booby!

I can't conjecture where we are; I did not [...] look out; but whereſoe'er, 'tis better than in the corregidor's hands.

I am as much at a loſs as you, ſir—the moon clouding, and our quick pace prevented my obſerving the turnings.

I wiſh they wou'd give us a little light, that we might ſee whether there was any means of running away, or no. I ſpy a glimmering under the door; the key turns—I'll venture to ſecure the candle however.

Don Florio!

We're faſt again; we've got a light how⯑ever, and may ſee what kind of place we are in!

Thanks to Don Guzman! I always held ſtratagem in war, preferable to force.

As I live, ſir, we are in Don Juan's houſe.

Heaven forbid!

I'm ſure, ſir; I have frequented it too often, on Cupid's errands, when you and my miſ⯑treſs us'd to meet in Donna Felicia's apartment, to be miſtaken in any part of it.

'Tis too truly ſo; our enemies will ſoon know whom they have entangled in their ſnares, and then their malicious deſigns will be compleated.

Stay, I think we have ſome room to hope—beyond that inner chamber, there is a back⯑ſtair-caſe, if the door be but open; it always us'd—let's try, ſir.

Lead on, guide.

Not yet retunr'd! what an irkſome ſituation to a man of my anxious diſpoſition! in momentary expectation of Antonio, therefore not daring to en⯑quire into what ſo intimately concerns my peace and honour; no, I muſt not attempt an explanation with my ſiſter, 'till the houſe be quiet, and Antonio retir'd to reſt. Shou'd he overhear any part of it, he wou'd reject her hand with ſcorn.—What ſtrange circumſtances have join'd together to pre⯑vent that ſingle and only event, which might give [62] me eaſe!—their marriage—'tis one comfort how⯑ever, that I have her ſafe now; I have not quitted theſe apartments; ſhe cannot have made a ſecond garden-excurſion—Therefore, till I can ſettle the whole affair to my wiſhes, I will endeavour to ſub⯑due my temper, controul my feelings, and be no more under the dominion of ſuch paſſions, as rend my heart.

Why wou'd Don Henriquez leave the cor⯑regidor's, before I—Oh! he's here,—yet how ſhall I tell it him? Don Henriquez—I—I—

What, Don Juan? Why this heſitation?

I dread to tell the iſſue of our ſearch.

You need not, my friend; ſome favour⯑able circumſtances, and a little cool reflection, I truſt, have render'd me more temperate.

I ſhou'd rejoice to prove it: but when you have heard my ſtory, I fear you will relapſe.

Couſin, I've ſaid it—I will not—

The corregidor and myſelf juſt reach'd the appointed place, time enough for his officers to ſeize the ſervants, who were accomplices, when they were juſt going to convey away in a chair—I cannot ſpeak it—

Out with it, man—conveying away whom?

Honoria.

Honoria!

Even ſo.

Oh! ho! ho! ho!

Do you laugh, couſin? You are indeed chang'd in temper when the honour of our family is a ſubject for your mirth.

Honoria! ha! ha!

This is a worſe extreme, methinks, than t'other; your ſenſes are unſettled.

You're not in earneſt?

I am—I found her there, as ſure as you have life.

Why 'tis not poſſible—Antonio entertain'd Honoria here, even now, accompanied by your ſiſter; and even now I left them within, ſent her to her chamber myſelf.

Couſin, couſin, what motive can you have for endeavouring to impoſe on me? I tell you po⯑ſitively I found her there, and her waiting-woman Roſa with her.

Couſin, couſin, do not perſiſt thus to af⯑firm impoſſibilities.

Sure you are making ſome experiment on my temper; are endeavouring to provoke me to one of your own frantick fits, that I may never dare to counſel you again; I ſwear to you, upon my honour, 'tis not half an hour ſince I left Ho⯑noria bearing away in a chair from the houſe, to which I dogg'd her, and your man Jaques leading the way, and guarding Roſa.

And I ſwear to you, upon my honour, and the honour of our whole anceſtry, 'tis not a quar⯑ter of an hour, ſince I ſpoke with Honoria, and your ſiſter, in this very apartment.

Indeed, Don Henriquez—

It may be decided this moment; follow me to her.

O! ſir, I have ſuch admirable news, yet am ſo full of aſtoniſhment, I ſcarce have power to tell you.

Villain, diſpatch.

When I had convey'd madam Honoria—

See! I told you ſo—

Roſa, and the man-ſervant who was with them, to your houſe, I lock'd 'em all three into your antichamber, and went down for a light.

This madneſs is infectious, and my varlet is in one of Juan's fits.

With which when I return'd, who ſhou'd I ſee, but Don Florio in the middle of the room, and madam Honoria vaniſh'd.

Florio!

How is that poſſible, if you are ſure you lock'd the door, when you went to fetch candles?

Ay, that's the very point, ſir; that I can't tell—but—

No matter, you are ſure you have Florio there?

I'll forfeit my life on that, ſir.

My injuries rekindle at his name; this moment will I ſacrifice the author of my ſhame, and inquietude.

Is then your promis'd coolneſs—

Away; I will not be advis'd, nor con⯑troul'd: the beaſt is in the toil, and he ſhall die.

Who is the unhappy man, brother, you ſo ſeverely doom? And what the great offence to ho⯑nour, which life alone can anſwer?

Sir—I—I—I am a villain if I know what to ſay to him;—how ſpiteful is his coming at this moment!

His appearance juſt now is critically happy; I may, by his aid, aſſuage, at leaſt, if not o'er-rule this madneſs.

Conſider me already as a friend, and bro⯑ther, and as ſuch treat me; give me a knowledge of your wrongs—I have a ſword ready to ſerve in all occaſions worthy yourſelf and me.

This affair, ſir, is ſo unfit—ſo unluckily tim'd, and your arrival here—it makes—how ſhall I ſhake him off?

Noble Don Antonio, if you value your brother's honour, perſiſt in accompanying him; I have moſt weighty reaſons, which when you know, you cannot but approve.

Wrong me not, Don Henriquez, by ſuſpi⯑cion: prove, by this early trial of my truth, how heartily I mean, thro' life, to eſpouſe the happi⯑neſs, and intereſts of your family.

I cannot doubt your honour, bravery, or attachment to our houſe; but, to engage ſo dear a gueſt in any cauſe of danger were inhoſpitable.

Be what it may, let me partake it; you are too noble to employ your ſword in an unworthy cauſe; therefore I muſt, I will attend you, or you, by your diſtruſt, prevent our promis'd union.

Not knowing, ſir, the nature of thoſe in⯑juries, whereon my reſentments are grounded, you may perhaps wonder at my deſperate meaſures.

You are too good a judge of honour's dues, to purſue ſuch meaſures, as will not bear a friend's inſpection.—We go, ſir——

To witneſs my revenge—Lights there.

Sir, ſuffer him not to quit your ſight, I beg: and uſe all means to calm his rage; I'll follow inſtantly.

Let me reflect a moment;—if Honoria be there (as ſure ſhe muſt) heaven knows to what extremes Henriquez may be driven!—Florio, at leaſt, is there, and I have ignorantly been the means of throwing him into his enemy's power; 'tis therefore incumbent on me, while he has the ſanction of my houſe, to en⯑deavour to preſerve his life, tho' at the hazard of my own.

How thwart and provoking?

That unlucky door!—I never knew it ſhut before.

We have now no means, Roſa; my dan⯑gers and diſtreſſes are compleat! I muſt welcome and endure them. Yet ſhall not my deſperate ſtate make me neglect the only duty I can pay;—the amiable, the generous Felicia's reputation muſt not be left in doubt, even with the baſe Henriquez, whoſe cruel temper has form'd ſuſpi⯑cions unworthy of her blameleſs conduct; 'tis fit I ſet him right.

A curſe on all love! and a double curſe on all conſtant love! 'tis always attended with fatal diſaſters! or ends in the worſt of all, marriage.

I ſuppoſe you wiſh every body to have ſuch a quickſilver heart, as yours: that can ſettle no where.

Why, that wou'd not be amiſs for you, my dear Roſa; you might then hope to have your turn, as well as pretty fac'd damſels.

And you wou'd be one of the laſt, I ſhou'd hear of; yet 'tis poſſible you might come, before you were welcome.

She has wit, and good humour; excellent ingredients to paſs away time; I have a liking to her perſon too, but that will end with marriage, and poſſibly her good humour too;—well, honeſt Guzman, I wou'd adviſe you to be wary; if you ſhou'd couple yourſelf to a yoke, in⯑ſtead of a yokefellow, you'll wear it to your grave. [67] Yet, on recollection, your dancing days are now over; your pleaſures are come up to your mouth, you are now for the comfortable joys of life, eaſe, and eating. And there's no cook or dry-nurſe like a wife.

Roſa, ſhou'd aught but well befal me, give theſe with care to Don Henriquez' hands—either on his deſperate arm, or his black teſtimony at the bar, my life depends; no matter which way 'tis decided.

I think no creature ſaw us paſs thro' the apartments.

What a tedious while have we been kept, before they left the chamber! My Florio too! what is become of him? The rage, we perceiv'd even now my brother to be in, makes me tremble, leſt, by ſome ſtrange means, he, as well as myſelf, may be thrown into his power.

My deareſt miſtreſs!

Oh! heavens!

Florio! then my fears were true.

Can I truſt my ſenſes?

I think not, we are aſleep, and dreaming, or haunted by fairies.

How is it poſſible I find you here? Did not my noble friend undertake your protection?

So did he yours, yet you are here, and equally expos'd to ruin.—Oh! how I grieve to ſay, 'tis he that has betray'd us both!

Antonio betray us!

Oh! no.—

It is, too ſurely—he is the man, to whom my brother has contracted me.

Bleſs my ſtars! no wonder we have blun⯑der'd ſo, when we contriv'd to take a huſband into [68] our party; nothing can ſucceed, they are concern'd in.

Contracted to Honoria! he come to marry my Honoria.

The very ſame, and he has taken theſe ungenerous means, to ſacrifice us both.

I will not, cannot think it; I would as ſoon believe impoſſibilities, as his apoſtacy from honour.

What's her concern in him Honoria?

That adds to our diſtreſſes—ſhe, and An⯑tonio—

This is no time to relate adventures—Florio and you muſt not be found here; therefore, Roſa, take this key, and ſet open the garden door, that leads to St. Jerome's ſtreet, thro' that you may eaſily eſcape, on the leaſt alarm.

Make haſte, dear girl.

Generous Felicia!

My lovely girl, under what obligations—how now Roſa! What's the matter?—

Undone paſt hope! your brother, An⯑tonio, Juan, and ſervants, with ſwords drawn, are, at this inſtant, in the hall: what will you do?

Into this inner room; retire, my love, and let me meet their rage.

I cannot leave you—let me but ſtay, and ſhare your fate—

I have no fears, but for you; nay haſte; I muſt compel you to the only means of ſafety, and concealment.

Oh! if that's your ſcheme, the devil take the hindmoſt! 'tis for your ſake, Roſa, I ſhun theſe honourable engagements;—having loſt my weapon, the beſt, I can do, is to walk off with the baggage.

I will not be perſuaded.

Couſin, you muſt: I have an honour too to guard, dear to me as yours is to you; in all, that juſtice ſanctifies, will I tread ſtep for ſtep; but will not permit my houſe to be the ſcene of premeditated miſchief, and revenge;—already they have ſtain'd theſe walls too deeply.

Such admonitions are too ſacred, ſurely, to paſs unregarded; Henriquez cannot be ſo loſt—

I cannot be ſo loſt to my own honour's calls, or nature's feeling, to liſten to a cynic's cold advice. Where is the man whoſe inſolence and folly has ſo far miſled him—

Here is the man you ſeek.

What do I ſee:

Whom thou ſo baſely haſt betray'd.

My friend! my Florio!

No more thy friend, Antonio, but Florio, by thy perfidy betray'd, and thrown upon his fate—

Let me paſs.

Hold a moment!

What mean you? Is all your fervour in a brother's intereſt reduc'd to a mean parley with the foe? I'll right myſelf.

Couſin forbear; you ſhall not have your way; there lies ſome myſtery conceal'd in this, which once unfolded, might perhaps reconcile the difference.

It cannot be but by the ſword; Antonio, hear me; if that the faith and friendſhip pledg'd to me want power to rouze you, let your own intereſt [70] and honour; that man, whom you protect from my reſentment, has ſeconded his inſolence to me, by foul attempts upon Honoria's honour.

I ſeek to wrong her honour! the parent of your black deſigns, and bitter enmity, ne'er yet invented a more helliſh ſalſhood; 'tis true, I have lov'd the virtuous Honoria—

How, ſir?

But with ſuch ſpotleſs affection, ſuch pure devotion, that ſhe has recompenc'd my paſſion with eſteem; has chain'd me to her ſervice, and I will either live to call her mine, or periſh in her cauſe.—

Diſtraction—daggers to my heart!—

Oh! has it rous'd you, ſir?

Henriquez pauſe!—mitigate your fury for a moment.—

I will not—His life or mine muſt pay the inſolence.

Hold, or thro' me you paſs; I muſt be heard. That impious man from infancy have I call'd friend;—allow me but a minute's ſpace, alone to queſtion him about our mutual wrongs—

Antonio, do not trifle with me; mean you to let him eſcape?

No, by name and honour; if I deal not in this buſineſs to your heart's wiſh, and honour's credit, my own life ſhall pay the forfeit.

Conſent, Henriquez, I beſeech you.

My heart is bleeding, while I ſpeak—I am not us'd to ſue; let me conjure you by your hopes of bliſs, by all your deareſt wiſhes, by our pro⯑pos'd union, grant me this, or here our friendſhip ceaſes, and we meet no more.

Delay is agony.

I will not keep you long.

What means Antonio?

Dareſt thou anſwer my demands?

I can, and juſtify myſelf, thou traitor to thy friend!

Lead to ſome other ſpot.

This way, good couſin.

I will not long be dallied with; theſe keen ſenſations will not leave my heart, nor can my fury die.

I am frighted to death.

At all events, let's follow, and ſee the re⯑ſult.

Let me go firſt, ladies, and watch their motions, I'll keep an excellent look-out, and alarm you, in caſe of extremity.

Be it ſo then; away!

There will be miſchief ſoon.—Therefore, as my maſter has rudely left the ladies, the leaſt I can do is to keep with 'em, and take care of 'em.

Give up my title! I never will renounce Honoria.

You muſt—ſhe is ſo much mine, that none muſt boaſt pretenſions to her, while I live—in ſaving you from mad Henriquez' ſword, I have diſcharg'd the engagement friendſhip made; the injur'd huſband now requires his dues.

Spite of my wrongs, I know not how to lift my ſword againſt the breaſt of him, who has given me ſuch juſt, ſuch ſtrong, and ſuch re⯑peated reaſons, to admire, and love him.

It was Florio, my comrade in arms, my boſom-friend, whom I deſign'd to ſerve; not that diſloyal man, who has invaded my honour, and my love.

Mean, treacherous artifice! to do ſo groſs an injury yourſelf, then charge me as the wronger! I ſwear, by all thoſe powers, who both diſcern, and puniſh, I never knew that you pretended to Henriquez' ſiſter, till ſince I came within theſe fatal walls.

How am I to believe you can ſpeak truth in this, who have myſelf been witneſs of your falſhood to her?

I falſe to Honoria! take heed, Antonio, ſo foul an injury I cannot brook.

Rare confidence! have I not myſelf aſſiſted your feign'd paſſion, and been witneſs of your faithleſs vows pledg'd to another?

Another! what mean device has bred ſo ſtrange a charge? but dars't thou talk of violated truth? where are thoſe ardent, ſacred, and eternal vows, pledg'd to an unknown fair, with which, at our firſt interview this night, thou did'ſt abuſe my credulous ear, and taught my ſympathiſing heart, torn as it was with it's own griefs, to throb with pangs for thee?

Still written here;—baſe man, I cannot longer bear thy mean evaſions; either renounce all claim to Honoria, or this muſt ſpeak the reſt.

I'll be reduc'd to atoms, ere I yield her.

Ay this is well—he ſhall not 'ſcape, with⯑out ſome marks of my revenge.

Hold ſir; he ſhall not be o'erpower'd with numbers neither; my honour you invade anew, and wake my pre-engagement to protect him.

Flames and the devil! why were not you yourſelf doing your beſt to kill him?

'Tis true; but if he muſt fall, he ſhall not be maſſacred by odds, but conquer'd fairly like a man.

For heaven's ſake, ceaſe this violence; I'll dye for't, but ſome curſed error lies conceal'd, that thus miſleads us all.—

With my ſword alone I'll ſearch it out, tho' multitudes oppos'd me.

Hear us! hear us!

By heavens, Honoria!

Why did not I tell you ſhe was brought here by my direction?

Oh! thou vile woman! that I cou'd de⯑ſtroy thy memory with thy life!

Hold, ſir;—altho' I do not know this lady, I have, this night, engag'd my faith both to protect, and ſerve her.

See there! he does not know Honoria.—

Not know her! why 'tis not an hour, ſince I ſaw him entertaining her at my houſe; death! all we ſee is illuſion, and all we do inchantment!

Suffer me, Don Henriquez, to unſpel theſe charms—Antonio, which of us is it, you pretend to?

Which? how can you aſk? you know too well the conqueſt, which you made of my poor heart, in Flanders.—

Conqueſt! heart! and Flanders? what means that now?

More riddles every moment!

Your contract with Honoria then—

Here I confirm it—when I forego ſo dear a tye, or wed another fair—

Take heed, for I am not Honoria.

Not Honoria!

No.

Is't poſſible? have I been only mock'd with viſionary bliſs, and are my hopes thus blaſted?

All now depends on whatſoever turn Hen⯑riquez' temper takes—Obſerve his conduct, nor doubt of mine.

Aſtoniſhment, and diſappointed fury ſeem to poſſeſs my brother's thoughts.

I'll try to calm them.—Know, Don Hen⯑riquez, that Don Florio has ever been your ſiſter's conſtant lover, his private viſits, at our houſe, which have diſturb'd your peace, were by me calculated for their interview, after you had refus'd her to his addreſſes;—my heart was then entirely free; 'tis now engag'd:—if I treſpaſs too far on that reſerve, which is our ſex's ornament, and guard, let the preſent exigence, and my gratitude for ſignal ſervices, plead my excuſe, while I declare, it is to that brave of⯑ficer.—

Humph!

This, brother, is that generous commander, whoſe valiant arm reſtor'd our liberties, and who engag'd himſelf the guardian of my honour.

This that gallant leader, to whom we are ſo much indebted?

The ſame.

Why did you not inform me ſooner of ſo laudable a prepoſſeſſion?

My dear brother, gratitude, eſteem, and a thouſand nameleſs paſſions, ſo ſoon poſſeſs'd me, I was aſham'd of what you might have call'd a viſionary love, and durſt not truſt my own tongue with my thoughts.

Your ſiſter, and this lady, Don Henriquez, both can witneſs I never had a thought to injure your happineſs, or honour. Don Pedro's death was occaſion'd by your miſtaken jealouſy; and you well know, (but that your ſelf, and your domeſticks, were the only witneſſes of that tranſaction) I had the faireſt claim to the protection of the law, hav⯑ing been ſurpris'd at diſ-advantage and oppreſs'd by numbers.

How!

Pedro deſerv'd his death, and I am blame⯑leſs.

My ſhame! my eternal ſhame! what ſhall I ſay? you ſee me overwhelm'd with confuſion; if I have acted in a manner unbecoming my name, and honour, attribute it to love—(I ſeek not longer to conceal it,) a hurt, a deſperate, jealous love for that ungrateful creature.

Couſin, I will now own, I have perceiv'd it long; and in juſtice to our friendſhip, and alli⯑ance, have even addreſs'd my ſiſter on the ſubject; but found ſuch inſurmountable objections to your but [76] violence of temper, that, in conſideration of what your pride might ſuffer, I conceal'd my knowledge of your paſſion, even from yourſelf.

How cou'd a man of Don Henriquez' ſenſe, and penetration, ſuppoſe his tyrannic treatment of ſo amiable a ſiſter, ſuch everlaſting doubts, ſuſpici⯑ons, jealouſies, reſtrictions, and ſeverities, muſt not diſguſt rather than win a woman's heart? Cou'd you but have ſubdued thoſe paſſions, perhaps, ere I had ſeen that gentleman, I might have been in⯑duc'd to think of you in ſuch a light, as your per⯑ſon, and natural endowments deſerv'd; if a diſ⯑appointment herein be painful, to your ſelf alone you are indebted for it.

Forbear, I pray you; ſhew not the happi⯑neſs I might have reached, nor add the weight of your reproaches, to my ſelf-condemnation; my puniſhment is ſufficient without it;—I have juſtly railed; when ſuch a heart as mine concedes, the pangs it ſuffers are not trivial.

I am ſorry, and aſk pardon.

Yet to convince you that my ſorrow is not ſelfiſh; as I have been the ſource of general uneaſineſs, I will endeavour to make a general amends, let my own heart ſuffer what it may: firſt madam, may you enjoy more happineſs, if poſſible, than I have wiſh'd to partake with you; and, ſir, to you, unaſk'd I thus reſign this contract, which love and juſtice both forbid me now to claim,

Noble Henriquez; I thank and honour you.

Sir, take from me her hand, whoſe heart your worth, and bravery has merited.

Thus I receive the ſum of happineſs, this world can give; and, ſir, ſince you have generouſ⯑ly reſign'd the name of brother, allow me that of friend, which while I live I will deſerve; and ſuffer [77] me to entreat your concurrence for your ſiſter's happineſs, where deſtiny ſeems to lead;—I will anſwer, with my life, my friend will merit her.

Sir, ſhe is your's;—and here dies all my animoſity.

We are now all your debtors; I am pecu⯑liarly ſo.

My brother, now you are indeed my bro⯑ther; noble, generous, and kind, you have ſet my heart at eaſe, and I am myſelf again.

That's more than I am, I'm ſure; I have ſeen ſo many wonders, I ſhan't be myſelf again this twelvemonth.

They have had a rare come-off; ſure, 'twou'd make a good plot for a play.

That wou'd be bad for me; for, by the laws of comedy, I ſhould be oblig'd to marry you.

Well thought of, Guzman, tho' ſpoke in jeſt; you ſeem well fitted for each other, and your faithful ſervices deſerve our general encourage⯑ment; what ſay you Roſa?

Sir, I ſay I have had ſo many frights to night, I am e'en afraid to lye alone.

Thy hand, ſweet Roſa; 'tis a bargain; if I dont repent firſt, I don't care.

This union being in my houſe, let me entreat your ſtay, to unite in woad'ring at theſe events, and enjoying general congratulations; couſin you will not refuſe me?

I will not be a means to thwart your mirth, but endeavour, as well as I am able, to partake it,—my heart has now a new, a difficult, and pain⯑ful leſſon ſet it, but it muſt be learn'd; for our adventures prove that womens mild and gentle hearts muſt be ſooth'd by indulgence, not frighted [78] by ſeverity; and that eaſy, frank, and confiding tempers bid faireſt for a generous return,