The tragic part of the "Spanish Friar" has uncommon merit. The opening of the Drama, and the picture of a besieged town in the last extremity, is deeply impressive, while the description of the noise of the night attack, and the gradual manner in which the intelligence of its success is communicated, arrests the attention, and prepares expectation for the appearance of the hero, with all the splendour which ought to attend the principal character in tragedy. The subsequent progress of the plot is liable to a capital objection, from the facility with which the queen, amiable and virtuous, as we are bound to suppose her, consents to the murder of the old dethroned monarch. We question if the operation of any motive, however powerful, could have been pleaded with propriety, in apology for a breach of theatrical decorum, so gross, and so unnatural. But, in fact, the queen is only actuated by a sort of reflected ambition, a desire to secure to her lover a crown, which she thought in danger; but which, according to her own statement, she only valued on his account. This is surely too remote and indirect a motive, to urge a female to so horrid a crime. There is also something vilely cold-hearted, in her attempt to turn the guilt and consequences of her own crime upon Bertran, who, whatever faults he might have to others, was to the queen no otherwise obnoxious, than because the victim of her own inconstancy. The gallant, virtuous, and enthusiastic character of Torrismond, must be allowed, in some measure, to counterbalance that of his mistress, however unhappily he has placed his affections. But the real excellence of these scenes consists less in peculiarity of character, than in the vivacity and power of the language, which, seldom sinking into vulgarity, or rising into bombast, maintains the mixture of force and dignity, best adapted to the expression of tragic passion. Upon the whole, as the comic part of this play is our author's master-piece in comedy, the tragic plot may be ranked with his very best efforts of that kind, whether in "Don Sebastian," or "All for Love."

The "Spanish Friar" appears to have been brought out shortly after Mr Thynne's murder, which is alluded to in the Prologue, probably early in 1681-2. The whimsical caricature, which it presented to the public, in Father Dominic, was received with rapture by the prejudiced spectators, who thought nothing could be exaggerated in the character of a Roman Catholic priest. Yet, the satire was still more severe in the first edition, and afterwards considerably softened[6]. It was, as Dryden himself calls it, a Protestant play; and certainly, as Jeremy Collier somewhere says, was rare Protestant diversion, and much for the credit of the Reformation. Accordingly, the "Spanish Friar" was the only play prohibited by James II. after his accession; an interdict, which may be easily believed no way disagreeable to the author, now a convert to the Roman church. It is very remarkable, that, after the Revolution, it was the first play represented by order of queen Mary, and honoured with her presence; a choice, of which she had abundant reason to repent, as the serious part of the piece gave as much scope for malicious application against herself, as the comic against the religion of her father[7].

Footnotes: 1. Collier remarks the injustice of punishing the agent of Lorenzo's vice, while he was himself brought off with flying colours. He observes, "'Tis not the fault which is corrected, but the priest. The author's discipline is seldom without a bias. He commonly gives the laity the pleasure of an ill action, and the clergy the punishment." View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the Stage, p. 100.

2. To satire next thy talent was addressed, Fell foul on all thy friends among the rest; Nay, even thy royal patron was not spared, But an obscene, a sauntering wretch declared. Thy loyal libel we can still produce, Beyond example, and beyond excuse. O strange return, to a forgiving king, (But the warmed viper wears the greatest sting,) For pension lost, and justly without doubt; When servants snarl we ought to kick them out. They that disdain their benefactor's bread. No longer ought by bounty to be fed. That lost, the visor changed, you turn about, And straight a true-blue protestant crept out. The Friar now was writ, and some will say, They smell a malcontent through all the play. The papist too was damned, unfit for trust, Called treacherous, shameless, profligate, unjust, And kingly power thought arbitrary lust. This lasted till thou didst thy pension gain, And that changed both thy morals and thy strain. The Laureat, 24th October, 1678.

3. From hence began that plot, the nation's curse, Bad in itself, but represented worse. Raised in extremes, and in extremes decryed, With oaths affirmed, with dying vows denied; Nor weighed nor winnowed by the multitude, But swallowed in the mass unchewed and crude. Some truth there was, but dashed and bruised with lies, To please the fools, and puzzle all the wise. Succeeding times did equal folly call. Believing nothing, or believing all.

4. "Thus we see," says Collier, "how hearty these people are in their ill-will; how they attack religion under every form, and pursue the priesthood through all the subdivisions of opinion. Neither Jews nor Heathens, Turk nor Christians, Rome nor Geneva, church nor conventicle, can escape them. They are afraid lest virtue should have any quarters, undisturbed conscience any corner to retire to, or God worshipped in any place." Short View, &c. p. 110.

5. "I have read somewhere in Mons. Rapin's Reflections sur la Poetique, that a certain Venetian nobleman, Andrea Naugeria by name, was wont every year to sacrifice a Martial to the manes of Catullus: In imitation of this, a celebrated poet, in the preface before the Spanish Friar, is pleased to acquaint the world, that he has indignation enough to burn a Bussy D'Amboys, annually, to the memory of Ben Jonson. Since the modern ceremony, of offering up one author at the altar of another, is likely to advance into a fashion; and having already the authority of two such great men to recommend it, the courteous reader may be pleased to take notice, that the author of the following dialogue is resolved, (God willing) on the festival of the Seven Sleepers, as long as he lives, to sacrifice the Hind and Panther to the memory of Mr Quarels and John Bunyan: Or, if a writer that has notoriously contradicted himself, and espoused the quarrel of two different parties, may be considered under two distinct characters, he designs to deliver up the author of the Hind and Panther, to be lashed severely by, and to beg pardon of, the worthy gentleman that wrote the Spanish Friar, and the Religion Laici." The reason of Mr Bayes' changing his religion. Preface.

6. "The Revolter," a tragi-comedy, 1687, p. 29.

7. It is impossible to avoid transcribing the whole account of this representation, with some other curious particulars, contained in a letter from the earl of Nottingham, published by Sir John Dalrymple, from a copy given him by the bishop of Dromore; and also inserted by Mr Malone in his third volume of Dryden's prose works.

"I am loth to send blank paper by a carrier, but am rather willing to send some of the tattle of the town, than nothing at all; which will at least serve for an hour's chat,—and then convert the scrawl to its proper use.

"The only day her Majesty gave herself the diversion of a play, and that on which she designed to see another, has furnished the town with discourse for near a month. The choice of the play was THE SPANISH FRIAR, the only play forbid by the late K[ing], Some unhappy expressions, among which those that follow, put her in some disorder, and forced her to hold up her fan, and often look behind her, and call for her palatine and hood, and any thing she could next think of; while those who were in the pit before her, turned their heads over their shoulders, and all in general directed their looks towards her, whenever their fancy led them to make any application of what was said. In one place, where the queen of Arragon is going to church in procession, 'tis said by a spectator, 'Very good; she usurps the throne, keeps the old king in prison, and, at the same time, is praying for a blessing on her army;'—And when said, 'That 'tis observed at Court, who weeps, and who wears black for good king Sancho's death,' 'tis said, 'Who is that, that can flatter a Court like this? Can I sooth tyranny? seem pleas'd to see my Royal Master murthered; his crown usurped; a distaff in the throne?'—And 'What title has this queen, but lawless force; and force must pull her down'—Twenty more things are said, which may be wrested to what they were never designed: but however, the observations then made furnished the town with talk, till something else happened, which gave it much occasion for discourse; for another play being ordered to be acted, the queen came not, being taken up with other diversion. She dined with Mrs Gradens, the famous woman in the hall, that sells fine laces and head-dresses; from thence she went to the Jew's, that sells Indian things; to Mrs Ferguson's, De Vett's, Mrs Harrison's, and other Indian houses; but not to Mrs Potter's, though in her way; which caused Mrs Potter to say, that she might as well have hoped for that honour as others, considering that the whole design of bringing the queen and king was managed at her house, and the consultations held there; so that she might as well have thrown away a little money in raffling there, as well as at the other houses: but it seems that my lord Devonshire has got Mrs Potter to be laundress: she has not much countenance of the queen, her daughter still keeping the Indian house her mother had. The same day the queen went to one Mrs Wise's, a famous woman for telling fortunes, but could not prevail with her to tell anything; though to others she has been very true, and has foretold that king James shall came in again, and the duke of Norfolk shall lose his head: the last, I suppose, will naturally be the consequence of the first. These things, however innocent, have passed the censure of the town: and, besides a private reprimand given, the king gave one in public; saying to the queen, that he heard she dined at a bawdy-house, and desired the next time she went, he might go. She said, she had done nothing but what the late queen had done. He asked her, if she meant to make her, her example. More was said on this occasion than ever was known before; but it was borne with all the submission of a good wife, who leaves all to the direction of the k——, and diverts herself with walking six or seven miles a-day, and looking after her buildings, making of fringes, and such like innocent things; and does not meddle in government, though she has better title to do it than the late queen had."



TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

JOHN,

LORD HAUGHTON[1].

MY LORD,

When I first designed this play, I found, or thought I found, somewhat so moving in the serious part of it, and so pleasant in the comic, as might deserve a more than ordinary care in both; accordingly, I used the best of my endeavour, in the management of two plots, so very different from each other, that it was not perhaps the talent of every writer to have made them of a piece. Neither have I attempted other plays of the same nature, in my opinion, with the same judgment, though with like success. And though many poets may suspect themselves for the fondness and partiality of parents to their youngest children, yet I hope I may stand exempted from this rule, because I know myself too well to be ever satisfied with my own conceptions, which have seldom reached to those ideas that I had within me; and consequently, I may presume to have liberty to judge when I write more or less pardonably, as an ordinary marksman may know certainly when he shoots less wide at what he aims. Besides, the care and pains I have bestowed on this, beyond my other tragi-comedies, may reasonably make the world conclude, that either I can do nothing tolerably, or that this poem is not much amiss. Few good pictures have been finished at one sitting; neither can a true just play, which is to bear the test of ages, be produced at a heat, or by the force of fancy, without the maturity of judgment. For my own part, I have both so just a diffidence of myself, and so great a reverence for my audience, that I dare venture nothing without a strict examination; and am as much ashamed to put a loose indigested play upon the public, as I should be to offer brass money in a payment; for though it should be taken, (as it is too often on the stage) yet it would be found in the second telling; and a judicious reader will discover, in his closet, that trashy stuff, whose glittering deceived him in the action. I have often heard the stationer sighing in his shop, and wishing for those hands to take off his melancholy bargain, which clapped its performance on the stage. In a playhouse, every thing contributes to impose upon the judgment; the lights, the scenes, the habits, and, above all, the grace of action, which is commonly the best where there is the most need of it, surprise the audience, and cast a mist upon their understandings; not unlike the cunning of a juggler, who is always staring us in the face, and over-whelming us with gibberish, only that he may gain the opportunity of making the cleaner conveyance of his trick. But these false beauties of the stage are no more lasting than a rainbow; when the actor ceases to shine upon them, when he gilds them no longer with his reflection, they vanish in a twinkling. I have sometimes wondered, in the reading, what was become of those glaring colours which amazed me in "Bussy D'Amboys" upon the theatre; but when I had taken up what I supposed a fallen star, I found I had been cozened with a jelly[2]; nothing but a cold, dull mass, which glittered no longer than it was shooting; a dwarfish thought, dressed up in gigantic words, repetition in abundance, looseness of expression, and gross hyperboles; the sense of one line expanded prodigiously into ten; and, to sum up all, uncorrect English, and a hideous mingle of false poetry, and true nonsense; or, at best, a scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life, and groaning beneath a heap of rubbish. A famous modern poet used to sacrifice every year a Statius to Virgil's manes[3]; and I have indignation enough to burn a D'AMBOIS annually, to the memory of Jonson[4]. But now, my lord, I am sensible, perhaps too late, that I have gone too far: for, I remember some verses of my own Maximin and Almanzor, which cry vengeance upon me for their extravagance, and which I wish heartily in the same fire with Statius and Chapman. All I can say for those passages, which are, I hope, not many, is, that I knew they were bad enough to please, even when I wrote them; but I repent of them amongst my sins; and, if any of their fellows intrude by chance into my present writings, I draw a stroke over all those Dalilah's of the theatre; and am resolved I will settle myself no reputation by the applause of fools. It is not that I am mortified to all ambition, but I scorn as much to take it from half-witted judges, as I should to raise an estate by cheating of bubbles. Neither do I discommend the lofty style in tragedy, which is naturally pompous and magnificent; but nothing is truly sublime, that is not just and proper. If the antients had judged by the same measure, which a common reader takes, they had concluded Statius to have written higher than Virgil, for,

Quae super-imposito moles geminata Colosso

carries a more thundering kind of sound, than

Tityre, tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi:

yet Virgil had all the majesty of a lawful prince, and Statius only the blustering of a tyrant. But when men affect a virtue which they cannot easily reach, they fall into a vice, which bears the nearest resemblance to it. Thus, an injudicious poet, who aims at loftiness, runs easily into the swelling puffy style, because it looks like greatness. I remember, when I was a boy, I thought inimitable Spencer a mean poet, in comparison of Sylvester's "Dubartas," and was wrapt into an ecstasy when I read these lines:

Now, when the winter's keener breath began To crystalize the Baltic ocean; To glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods, And periwig with snow the bald-pate woods:—[5]

I am much deceived if this be not abominable fustian, that is, thoughts and words ill-sorted, and without the least relation to each other; yet I dare not answer for an audience, that they would not clap it on the stage: so little value there is to be given to the common cry, that nothing but madness can please madmen, and the poet must be of a piece with the spectators, to gain a reputation with them. But, as in a room, contrived for state, the height of the roof should bear a proportion to the area; so, in the heightenings of poetry, the strength and vehemence of figures should be suited to the occasion, the subject, and the persons. All beyond this is monstrous: it is out of nature, it is an excrescence, and not a living part of poetry. I had not said thus much, if some young gallants, who pretend to criticism, had not told me, that this tragi-comedy wanted the dignity of style; but, as a man, who is charged with a crime of which he thinks himself innocent, is apt to be too eager in his own defence; so, perhaps, I have vindicated my play with more partiality than I ought, or than such a trifle can deserve. Yet, whatever beauties it may want, it is free at least from the grossness of those faults I mentioned: what credit it has gained upon the stage, I value no farther than in reference to my profit, and the satisfaction I had, in seeing it represented with all the justness and gracefulness of action. But, as it is my interest to please my audience, so it is my ambition to be read: that I am sure is the more lasting and the nobler design: for the propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action: all things are there beheld, as in a hasty motion, where the objects only glide before the eye, and disappear. The most discerning critic can judge no more of these silent graces in the action, than he who rides post through an unknown country can distinguish the situation of places, and the nature of the soil. The purity of phrase, the clearness of conception and expression, the boldness maintained to majesty, the significancy and sound of words, not strained into bombast, but justly elevated; in short, those very words and thoughts, which cannot be changed, but for the worse, must of necessity escape our transient view upon the theatre; and yet, without all these, a play may take. For, if either the story move us, or the actor help the lameness of it with his performance, or now and then a glittering beam of wit or passion strike through the obscurity of the poem, any of these are sufficient to effect a present liking, but not to fix a lasting admiration; for nothing but truth can long continue; and time is the surest judge of truth. I am not vain enough to think that I have left no faults in this, which that touchstone will not discover; neither, indeed, is it possible to avoid them in a play of this nature. There are evidently two actions in it; but it will be clear to any judicious man, that with half the pains I could have raised a play from either of them; for this time I satisfied my humour, which was to tack two plays together; and to break a rule for the pleasure of variety. The truth is, the audience are grown weary of continued melancholy scenes; and I dare venture to prophecy, that few tragedies, except those in verse, shall succeed in this age, if they are not lightened with a course of mirth; for the feast is too dull and solemn without the fiddles. But how difficult a task this is, will soon be tried; for a several genius is required to either way; and, without both of them, a man, in my opinion, is but half a poet for the stage. Neither is it so trivial an undertaking, to make a tragedy end happily; for it is more difficult to save, than it is to kill. The dagger and the cup of poison are always in a readiness; but to bring the action to the last extremity, and then by probable means to recover all, will require the art and judgement of a writer; and cost him many a pang in the performance.

And now, my lord, I must confess, that what I have written, looks more like a Preface, than a Dedication; and, truly, it was thus far my design, that I might entertain you with somewhat in my own art, which might be more worthy of a noble mind, than the stale exploded trick of fulsome panegyrics. It is difficult to write justly on any thing, but almost impossible in praise. I shall therefore wave so nice a subject; and only tell you, that, in recommending a protestant play to a protestant patron, as I do myself an honour, so I do your noble family a right, who have been always eminent in the support and favour of our religion and liberties. And if the promises of your youth, your education at home, and your experience abroad, deceive me not, the principles you have embraced are such, as will no way degenerate from your ancestors, but refresh their memory in the minds of all true Englishmen, and renew their lustre in your person; which, my lord, is not more the wish, than it is the constant expectation, of

Your lordship's Most obedient, faithful servant, JOHN DRYDEN.

Footnotes: 1. John, Lord Haughton, eldest son of the Earl of Clare. succeeded to his father, was created Marquis of Clare, and died 1711, leaving an only daughter, who married the eldest son of the famous Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford.

2. See note on OEdipus, p. 151.

3. Dryden appears to have alluded to the following passage in Strada, though without a very accurate recollection of its contents: "Sane Andreas Naugerius Valerio Martiali acriter infensus, solemne jam habebat in illum aliquanto petulantius jocari. Etenim natali suo, accitis ad geniale epulum amicis, postquam prolixe de poeticae laudibus super mensam disputaverat; ostensurum se aiebat a caena, quo tandem modo laudari poesim deceret: Mox aferri jubebat Martialis volumen, (haec erat mensae appendix) atque igni proprior factus, illustri conflagratione absumendum flammis imponebat: addebatque eo incendio litare se Musis, Manibusque Virgilij, cujus imitatorem cultoremque prestare se melius haud posset, quam si vilia poetarum capita per undas insecutus ac flammas perpetuo perdidisset. Nec se eo loco tenuit, sed cum Silvas aliquot ab se conscriptas legisset, audissetque Statianu characteri similes videri, iratus sibi, quod a Martiale fugiens alio declinasset a Virgilio, cum primum se recessit domum, in Silvas conjecit ignem." Stradae Prolusiones, Lib. II. Pro. 5. From this passage, it is obvious, that it was Martial, not Statius, whom Andreas Navagero sacrificed to Virgil, although he burned his own verses when they were accused of a resemblance to the style of the author of the Thebaid. In the same prolusion, Strada quotes the "blustering" line, afterwards censured by Dryden; but erroneously reads,

Super imposito moles gemmata colosso.

4. "Bussy D'Ambois," a tragedy, once much applauded, was the favourite production of George Chapman. If Dryden could have exhausted every copy of this bombast performance in one holocaust, the public would have been no great losers, as may be apparent from the following quotations:

Bussy. I'll sooth his plots, and strew my hate with smiles, Till, all at once, the close mines of my heart Rise at full state, and rush into his blood. I'll bind his arm in silk, and rub his flesh, To make the veine swell, that his soule may gush Into some kennel, where it loves to lie; And policy be flanked with policy. Yet shall the feeling centre, where we meet. Groan with the weight of my approaching feet. I'll make the inspired threshold of his court Sweat with the weather of my horrid steps, Before I enter; yet, I will appear Like calm securitie, befor a ruin. A politician must, like lightning, melt The very marrow, and not taint the skin; His wayes must not be seen through, the superficies Of the green centre must not taste his feet, When hell is plowed up with the wounding tracts, And all his harvest reap't by hellish facts.

Montsurry, when he discovers that the Friar had acted as confident in the intrigue betwixt his lady and d'Ambois, thus elegantly expresses the common idea of the world being turned upside down.

Now, is it true, earth moves, and heaven stands still; Even heaven itself must see and suffer ill. The too huge bias of the world hath swayed Her back-part upwards, and with that she braves This hemisphere, that long her month hath mocked. The gravity of her religious face, Now grown too weighty with her sacrilege, And here discerned sophisticate enough, Turns to the antipodes, and all the forms That here allusions have impressed in her, Have eaten through her back, and now all see How she is riveted with hypocrisie.

Yet, I observe, from the prologue to the edition of 1641, that the part of D'Ambois was considered as a high test of a players' talents:

—Field is gone, Whose action first did give it name; and one Who came the neatest to him, is denied, By his grey beard, to shew the height and pride Of d'Ambois' youth and braverie. Yet to hold Our title still a-foot, and not grow cold, By giving't o'er, a third man with his best Of care and paines defends our interest. As Richard he was liked, nor do we fear, In personating d'Ambois, heile appear To faint, or goe lesse, so your free consent, As heretofore, give him encouragement.

I believe the successor of Field, in this once favourite character, was Hart. The piece was revived after the Restoration with great success.

5. Dryden has elsewhere ridiculed this absurd passage. The original has "periwig with wool."



PROLOGUE.

Now, luck for us, and a kind hearty pit; For he, who pleases, never fails of wit: Honour is yours; And you, like kings at city-treats, bestow it; The writer kneels, and is bid rise a poet; But you are fickle sovereigns, to our sorrow; You dub to-day, and hang a man to-morrow: You cry the same sense up, and down again, Just like brass-money once a year in Spain: Take you in the mood, whate'er base metal come, You coin as fast as groats at Birmingham: Though 'tis no more like sense, in antient plays, Than Rome's religion like St Peter's days. In short, so swift your judgments turn and wind, You cast our fleetest wits a mile behind. 'Twere well your judgments but in plays did range, But e'en your follies and debauches change With such a whirl, the poets of our age Are tired, and cannot score them on the stage; Unless each vice in short-hand they indict, Even as notch'd prentices whole sermons write[1]. The heavy Hollanders no vices know, But what they used a hundred years ago; Like honest plants, where they were stuck, they grow. They cheat, but still from cheating sires they come; They drink, but they were christened first in mum. Their patrimonial sloth the Spaniards keep, And Philip first taught Philip how to sleep. The French and we still change; but here's the curse, They change for better, and we change for worse; They take up our old trade of conquering, And we are taking theirs, to dance and sing: Our fathers did, for change, to France repair, And they, for change, will try our English air; As children, when they throw one toy away, Strait a more foolish gewgaw comes in play: So we, grown penitent, on serious thinking, Leave whoring, and devoutly fall to drinking. Scowering the watch grows out-of-fashion wit: Now we set up for tilting in the pit, Where 'tis agreed by bullies chicken-hearted, To fright the ladies first, and then be parted. A fair attempt has twice or thrice been made, To hire night murderers, and make death a trade[2]. When murder's out, what vice can we advance? Unless the new-found poisoning trick of France: And, when their art of rats-bane we have got, By way of thanks, we'll send them o'er our plot.

Footnotes 1. It was anciently a part of the apprentice's duty, not only to carry the family bible to church, but to take notes of the sermon for the edification of his master or mistress.

2. Alluding apparently to the assassination of Thomas Thynne, esq. in Pall-Mall, by the hired bravoes of count Coningsmark.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

TORRISMOND, Son of SANCHO, the deposed King, believing himself Son of RAYMOND. BERTRAN, a Prince of the blood. ALPHONSO, a general Officer, Brother to RAYMOND. LORENZO, his Son. RAYMOND, a Nobleman, supposed Father of TORRISMOND. PEDRO, an Officer. GOMEZ, an old Usurer. DOMINICK, the Spanish Friar.

LEONORA, Queen of Arragon. TERESA, Woman to LEONORA. ELVIRA, Wife to GOMEZ.



THE

SPANISH FRIAR:

OR THE

DOUBLE DISCOVERY.

ACT I.—SCENE I.

ALPHONSO and PEDRO meet, with Soldiers on each Side, Drums, &c.

Alph. Stand: give the word.

Ped. The queen of Arragon.

Alph. Pedro?—how goes the night?

Ped. She wears apace.

Alph. Then welcome day-light; we shall have warm work on't. The Moor will 'gage His utmost forces on this next assault, To win a queen and kingdom.

Ped. Pox on this lion-way of wooing, though. Is the queen stirring yet?

Alph. She has not been abed, but in her chapel All night devoutly watched, and bribed the saints With vows for her deliverance.

Ped. O, Alphonso! I fear they come too late. Her father's crimes Sit heavy on her, and weigh down her prayers. A crown usurped; a lawful king deposed, In bondage held, debarred the common light; His children murdered, and his friends destroyed,— What can we less expect than what we feel, And what we fear will follow?

Alph. Heaven avert it!

Ped. Then heaven must not be heaven. Judge the event By what has passed. The usurper joyed not long His ill-got crown:—'tis true, he died in peace,— Unriddle that, ye powers!—but left his daughter, Our present queen, engaged upon his death-bed, To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father Had helped to make him great. Hence, you well know, this fatal war arose; Because the Moor Abdalla, with whose troops The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused; And, as an infidel, his love despised.

Alph. Well, we are soldiers, Pedro; and, like lawyers, Plead for our pay.

Ped. A good cause would do well though: It gives my sword an edge. You see this Bertran Has now three times been beaten by the Moors: What hope we have, is in young Torrismond, Your brother's son.

Alph. He's a successful warrior, And has the soldiers' hearts: upon the skirts Of Arragon our squandered troops he rallies. Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes Expect his swift arrival.

Ped. It must be swift, or it will come too late.

Alph. No more.—Duke Bertran.

Enter BERTRAN attended.

Bert. Relieve the sentries that have watched all night. [To Ped.] Now, colonel, have you disposed your men, That you stand idle here?

Ped. Mine are drawn off To take a short repose.

Bert. Short let it be: For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more, There has been heard a distant humming noise, Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives. What courage in our soldiers? Speak! What hope?

Ped. As much as when physicians shake their heads, And bid their dying patient think of heaven. Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain; The rest, an heartless number, spent with watching, And harassed out with duty.

Bert. Good-night all, then.

Ped. Nay, for my part, 'tis but a single life I have to lose. I'll plant my colours down In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot; Say a short soldier's prayer, to spare the trouble Of my new friends above; and then expect The next fair bullet.

Alph. Never was known a night of such distraction; Noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds. That run, and know not whither; torches gliding, Like meteors, by each other in the streets.

Ped. I met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar,— With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin Might rest upon it; a true son of the church; Fresh-coloured, well thriven on his trade,— Come puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir, And fumbling o'er his beads in such an agony, He told them false, for fear. About his neck There hung a wench, the label of his function, Whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly. It seems the holy stallion durst not score Another sin, before he left the world.

Enter a Captain.

Capt. To arms, my lord, to arms! From the Moors' camp the noise grows louder still: Rattling of armour, trumpets, drums, and ataballes; And sometimes peals of shouts that rend the heavens, Like victory: then groans again, and howlings, Like those of vanquished men; but every echo Goes fainter off, and dies in distant sounds.

Bert. Some false attack: expect on t'other side. One to the gunners on St Jago's tower; bid them, for shame, Level their cannon lower: On my soul They are all corrupted with the gold of Barbary, To carry over, and not hurt the Moor.

Enter a second Captain.

2 Capt. My lord, here's fresh intelligence arrived. Our army, led by valiant Torrismond, Is now in hot engagement with the Moors; 'Tis said, within their trenches.

Bert. I think all fortune is reserved for him!— He might have sent us word though; And then we could have favoured his attempt With sallies from the town.

Alph. It could not be: We were so close blocked up, that none could peep Upon the walls and live. But yet 'tis time.

Bert. No, 'tis too late; I will not hazard it: On pain of death, let no man dare to sally.

Ped. Oh envy, envy, how it works within him! [Aside. How now? what means this show?

Alph. 'Tis a procession. The queen is going to the great cathedral, To pray for our success against the Moors.

Ped. Very good: she usurps the throne, keeps the old king in prison, and, at the same time, is praying for a blessing. Oh religion and roguery, how they go together! [A Procession of Priests and Choristers in White, with Tapers, followed by the Queen and Ladies, goes over the Stage: the Choristers singing,

_Look down, ye blessed above, look down, Behold our weeping matrons' tears, Behold our tender virgins' fears, And with success our armies crown.

Look down, ye blessed above, look down: Oh! save us, save as, and our state restore; For pity, pity, pity, we implore: For pity, pity, pity, we implore._ [_The Procession goes off; and shout within. Then_

Enter LORENZO, who kneels to ALPHONSO.

Bert. [To Alph.] A joyful cry; and see your son Lorenzo. Good news, kind heaven!

Alph. [To Lor.] O welcome, welcome! is the general safe? How near our army? when shall we be succoured? Or, are we succoured? are the Moors removed? Answer these questions first, and then a thousand more; Answer them all together.

Lor. Yes, when I have a thousand tongues, I will. The general's well; his army too is safe, As victory can make them. The Moors' king Is safe enough, I warrant him, for one. At dawn of day our general cleft his pate, Spite of his woollen night-cap: a slight wound; Perhaps he may recover.

Alph. Thou reviv'st me.

Ped. By my computation now, the victory was gained before the procession was made for it; and yet it will go hard but the priests will make a miracle of it.

Lor. Yes, faith; we came like bold intruding guests, And took them unprepared to give us welcome. Their scouts we killed, then found their body sleeping; And as they lay confused, we stumbled o'er them, And took what joint came next, arms, heads, or legs, Somewhat indecently. But when men want light, They make but bungling work.

Bert. I'll to the queen, And bear the news.

Ped. That's young Lorenzo's duty.

Bert. I'll spare his trouble.— This Torrismond begins to grow too fast; He must be mine, or ruined. [Aside, and Exit.

Lor. Pedro a word:—[whisper.]

Alph. How swift he shot away! I find it stung him, In spite of his dissembling. [To Lorenzo.] How many of the enemy are slain?

Lor. Troth, sir, we were in haste, and could not stay To score the men we killed; but there they lie: Best send our women out to take the tale; There's circumcision in abundance for them. [Turns to PEDRO again.

Alph. How far did you pursue them?

Lor. Some few miles.— [To Pedro] Good store of harlots, say you, and dog-cheap? Pedro, they must be had, and speedily; I've kept a tedious fast. [Whisper again.

Alph. When will he make his entry? he deserves Such triumphs as were given by ancient Rome: Ha, boy, what say'st thou?

Lor. As you say, sir, that Rome was very ancient. [To Pedro.] I leave the choice to you; fair, black, tall, low, Let her but have a nose; and you may tell her, I am rich in jewels, rings, and bobbing pearls, Plucked from Moors' ears.

Alph. Lorenzo.

Lor. Somewhat busy About affairs relating to the public.— A seasonable girl, just in the nick now— [To Pedro. [Trumpets within.

Ped. I hear the general's trumpet. Stand and mark How he will be received; I fear, but coldly. There hung a cloud, methought, on Bertran's brow.

Lor. Then look to see a storm on Torrismond's; Looks fright not men. The general has seen Moors With as bad faces; no dispraise to Bertran's.

Ped. 'Twas rumoured in the camp, he loves the queen.

Lor. He drinks her health devoutly.

Alph. That may breed bad blood betwixt him and Bertran.

Ped. Yes, in private. But Bertran has been taught the arts of court, To gild a face with smiles, and leer a man to ruin, O here they come.—

Enter TORRISMOND and Officers on one Side, BERTRAN attended on the other; they embrace, BERTRAN bowing low.

Just as I prophesied.—

Lor. Death and hell, he laughs at him!—in his face too.

Ped. O you mistake him; 'twas an humble grin, The fawning joy of courtiers and of dogs.

Lor. Here are nothing but lies to be expected: I'll even go lose myself in some blind alley, and try if any courteous damsel will think me worth the finding. [Aside, and Exit.

Alph. Now he begins to open.

Bert. Your country rescued, and your queen relieved,— A glorious conquest, noble Torrismond! The people rend the skies with loud applause, And heaven can hear no other name but yours. The thronging crowds press on you as you pass, And with their eager joy make triumph slow.

Torr. My lord, I have no taste Of popular applause; the noisy praise Of giddy crowds, as changeable as winds; Still vehement, and still without a cause; Servant to chance, and blowing in the tide Of swoln success; but veering with its ebb, It leaves the channel dry.

Bert. So young a stoick!

Torr. You wrong me, if you think I'll sell one drop Within these veins for pageants; but, let honour Call for my blood, and sluice it into streams: Turn fortune loose again to my pursuit, And let me hunt her through embattled foes, In dusty plains, amidst the cannons' roar, There will I be the first.

Bert. I'll try him farther.— [Aside. Suppose the assembled states of Arragon Decree a statue to you, thus inscribed: "To Torrismond, who freed his native land."

Alph. [To Ped.] Mark how he sounds and fathoms him, To find the shallows of his soul!

Bert. The just applause Of god-like senates, is the stamp of virtue, Which makes it pass unquestioned through the world. These honours you deserve; nor shall my suffrage Be last to fix them on you. If refused, You brand us all with black ingratitude: For times to come shall say,—Our Spain, like Rome, Neglects her champions after noble acts, And lets their laurels wither on their heads.

Torr. A statue, for a battle blindly fought, Where darkness and surprise made conquest cheap! Where virtue borrowed but the arms of chance, And struck a random blow!—'Twas fortune's work, And fortune take the praise.

Bert. Yet happiness Is the first fame. Virtue without success Is a fair picture shewn by an ill light; But lucky men are favourites of heaven: And whom should kings esteem above heaven's darlings? The praises of a young and beauteous queen Shall crown your glorious acts.

Ped. [To Alph.] There sprung the mine.

Torr. The queen! that were a happiness too great! Named you the queen, my lord?

Bert. Yes: you have seen her, and you must confess, A praise, a smile, a look from her is worth The shouts of thousand amphitheatres. She, she shall praise you, for I can oblige her: To-morrow will deliver all her charms Into my arms, and make her mine for ever.— Why stand you mute?

Torr. Alas! I cannot speak.

Bert. Not speak, my lord! How were your thoughts employed?

Torr. Nor can I think, or I am lost in thought.

Bert. Thought of the queen, perhaps?

Torr. Why, if it were, Heaven may be thought on, though too high to climb.

Bert. O, now I find where your ambition drives! You ought not to think of her.

Torr. So I say too, I ought not; madmen ought not to be mad; But who can help his frenzy?

Bert. Fond young man! The wings of your ambition must be clipt: Your shame-faced virtue shunned the people's praise, And senate's honours: But 'tis well we know What price you hold yourself at. You have fought With some success, and that has sealed your pardon.

Torr. Pardon from thee!—O, give me patience, heaven!— Thrice vanquished Bertran, if thou dar'st, look out Upon yon slaughtered host, that field of blood; There seal my pardon, where thy fame was lost.

Ped. He's ruined, past redemption!

Alph. [To TORR.] Learn respect To the first prince of the blood.

Bert. O, let him rave! I'll not contend with madmen.

Torr. I have done: I know, 'twas madness to declare this truth: And yet, 'twere baseness to deny my love. 'Tis true, my hopes are vanishing as clouds; Lighter than children's bubbles blown by winds: My merit's but the rash result of chance; My birth unequal; all the stars against me: Power, promise, choice, the living and the dead; Mankind my foes; and only love to friend: But such a love, kept at such awful distance, As, what it loudly dares to tell a rival, Shall fear to whisper there. Queens may be loved, And so may gods; else why are altars raised? Why shines the sun, but that he may be viewed? But, oh! when he's too bright, if then we gaze, 'Tis but to weep, and close our eyes in darkness. [Exit.

Bert. 'Tis well; the goddess shall be told, she shall, Of her new worshipper. [Exit.

Ped. So, here's fine work! He has supplied his only foe with arms For his destruction. Old Penelope's tale Inverted; he has unravelled all by day, That he has done by night. What, planet struck!

Alph. I wish I were; to be past sense of this!

Ped. Would I had but a lease of life so long, As 'till my flesh and blood rebelled this way, Against our sovereign lady;—mad for a queen? With a globe in one hand, and a sceptre in t'other? A very pretty moppet!

Alph. Then to declare his madness to his rival! His father absent on an embassy; Himself a stranger almost; wholly friendless! A torrent, rolling down a precipice, Is easier to be stopt, than is his ruin.

Ped. 'Tis fruitless to complain; haste to the court; Improve your interest there for pardon from the queen.

Alph. Weak remedies; But all must be attempted. [Exit.

SCENE II.

Enter LORENZO.

Lor. Well, I am the most unlucky rogue! I have been ranging over half the town; but have sprung no game. Our women are worse infidels than the Moors: I told them I was one of the knight-errants, that delivered them from ravishment; and I think in my conscience, that is their quarrel to me.

Ped. Is this a time for fooling? Your cousin is run honourably mad in love with her majesty; he is split upon a rock, and you, who are in chase of harlots, are sinking in the main ocean. I think, the devil's in the family. [Exit.

Lor. [Solus.] My cousin ruined, says he! hum, not that I wish my kinsman's ruin; that were unchristian: but, if the general is ruined, I am heir; there's comfort for a Christian! Money I have; I thank the honest Moors for it; but I want a mistress. I am willing to be lewd; but the tempter is wanting on his part.

Enter ELVIRA, veiled.

Elv. Stranger! Cavalier!—will you not hear me? you Moor-killer, you Matador!—

Lor. Meaning me, madam?

Elv. Face about, man! you a soldier, and afraid of the enemy!

Lor. I must confess, I did not expect to have been charged first: I see souls will not be lost for want of diligence in this devil's reign. [Aside.] Now, Madam Cynthia, behind a cloud, your will and pleasure with me?

Elv. You have the appearance of a cavalier; and if you are as deserving as you seem, perhaps you may not repent of your adventure. If a lady like you well enough to hold discourse with you at first sight; you are gentleman enough, I hope, to help her out with an apology, and to lay the blame on stars, or destiny, or what you please, to excuse the frailty of a woman?

Lor. O, I love an easy woman! there's such ado, to crack a thick-shelled mistress; we break our teeth, and find no kernel. 'Tis generous in you, to take pity on a stranger, and not to suffer him to fall into ill hands at his first arrival.

Elv. You may have a better opinion of me than I deserve; you have not seen me yet; and, therefore, I am confident you are heart-whole.

Lor. Not absolutely slain, I must confess; but I am drawing on apace: you have a dangerous tongue in your head, I can tell you that; and if your eyes prove of as killing metal, there is but one way with me. Let me see you, for the safeguard of my honour; 'tis but decent the cannon should be drawn down upon me before I yield.

Elv. What a terrible similitude have you made, colonel, to shew that you are inclining to the wars? I could answer you with another in my profession: Suppose you were in want of money, would you not be glad to take a sum upon content in a sealed bag, without peeping?—but, however, I will not stand with you for a sample. [Lifts up her veil.

Lor. What eyes were there! how keen their glances! you do well to keep them veiled; they are too sharp to be trusted out of the scabbard.

Elv. Perhaps now, you may accuse my forwardness; but this day of jubilee is the only time of freedom I have had; and there is nothing so extravagant as a prisoner, when he gets loose a little, and is immediately to return into his fetters.

Lor. To confess freely to you, madam, I was never in love with less than your whole sex before; but now I have seen you, I am in the direct road of languishing and sighing; and, if love goes on as it begins, for aught I know, by to-morrow morning you may hear of me in rhyme and sonnet. I tell you truly, I do not like these symptoms in myself. Perhaps I may go shufflingly at first; for I was never before walked in trammels; yet, I shall drudge and moil at constancy, till I have worn off the hitching in my pace.

Elv. Oh, sir, there are arts to reclaim the wildest men, as there are to make spaniels fetch and carry: chide them often, and feed them seldom. Now I know your temper, you may thank yourself, if you are kept to hard meat. You are in for years, if you make love to me.

Lor. I hate a formal obligation with an Anno Domini at end on't; there may be an evil meaning in the word years, called matrimony.

Elv. I can easily rid you of that fear: I wish I could rid myself as easily of the bondage.

Lor. Then you are married?

Elv. If a covetous, and a jealous, and an old man be a husband.

Lor. Three as good qualities for my purpose as I could wish: now love be praised!

Enter ELVIRA'S Duenna, and whispers to her.

Elv. [Aside.] If I get not home before my husband, I shall be ruined. [To him.] I dare not stay to tell you where. Farewell!—Could I once more— [Exit.

Lor. This is unconscionable dealing; to be made a slave, and know not whose livery I wear. Who have we yonder?

Enter GOMEZ.

By that shambling in his walk, it should be my rich old banker, Gomez, whom I knew at Barcelona: As I live 'tis he!—What, old Mammon here! [To GOMEZ.

Gom. How! young Beelzebub?

Lor. What devil has set his claws in thy haunches, and brought thee hither to Saragossa? Sure he meant a farther journey with thee.

Gom. I always remove before the enemy: When the Moors are ready to besiege one town, I shift quarters to the next; I keep as far from the infidels as I can.

Lor. That's but a hair's breadth at farthest.

Gom. Well, you have got a famous victory; all true subjects are overjoyed at it: There are bonfires decreed; an the times had not been hard, my billet should have burnt too.

Lor. I dare say for thee, thou hast such a respect for a single billet, thou wouldst almost have thrown on thyself to save it; thou art for saving every thing but thy soul.

Gom. Well, well, you'll not believe me generous, 'till I carry you to the tavern, and crack half a pint with you at my own charges.

Lor. No; I'll keep thee from hanging thyself for such an extravagance; and, instead of it, thou shalt do me a mere verbal courtesy. I have just now seen a most incomparable young lady.

Gom. Whereabouts did you see this most incomparable young lady?—My mind misgives me plaguily. [Aside.

Lor. Here, man, just before this corner-house: Pray heaven, it prove no bawdy-house.

Gom. [Aside.] Pray heaven, he does not make it one!

Lor. What dost thou mutter to thyself? Hast thou any thing to say against the honesty of that house?

Gom. Not I, colonel; the walls are very honest stone, and the timber very honest wood, for aught I know; but for the woman, I cannot say, till I know her better: Describe her person, and, if she live in this quarter, I may give you tidings of her.

Lor. She is of a middle stature, dark-coloured hair, the most bewitching leer with her eyes, the most roguish cast! her cheeks are dimpled when she smiles, and her smiles would tempt an hermit.

Gom. [Aside.] I am dead, I am buried, I am damned.—Go on, colonel; have you no other marks of her?

Lor. Thou hast all her marks; but she has a husband, a jealous, covetous, old hunks: Speak! canst thou tell me news of her?

Gom. Yes; this news, colonel, that you have seen your last of her.

Lor. If thou help'st me not to the knowledge of her, thou art a circumcised Jew.

Gom. Circumcise me no more than I circumcise you, colonel Hernando: Once more, you have seen your last of her.

Lor. [Aside.] I am glad he knows me only by that name of Hernando, by which I went at Barcelona; now he can tell no tales of me to my father.—[To him.] Come, thou wer't ever good-natured, when thou couldst get by it—Look here, rogue; 'tis of the right damning colour: Thou art not proof against gold, sure!—Do not I know thee for a covetous—

Gom. Jealous old hunks? those were the marks of your mistress's husband, as I remember, colonel.

Lor. Oh the devil! What a rogue in understanding was I, not to find him out sooner! [Aside.

Gom. Do, do, look sillily, good colonel; 'tis a decent melancholy after an absolute defeat.

Lor. Faith, not for that, clear Gomez; but—

Gom. But—no pumping, my dear colonel.

Lor. Hang pumping! I was thinking a little upon a point of gratitude. We two have been long acquaintance; I know thy merits, and can make some interest;—Go to; thou wert born to authority; I'll make thee Alcaide, Mayor of Saragossa.

Gom. Satisfy yourself; you shall not make me what you think, colonel.

Lor. Faith, but I will; thou hast the face of a magistrate already.

Gom. And you would provide me with a magistrate's head to my magistrate's face; I thank you, colonel.

Lor. Come, thou art so suspicious upon an idle story! That woman I saw, I mean that little, crooked, ugly woman,—for t'other was a lie,—is no more thy wife,—As I'll go home with thee, and satisfy thee immediately, my dear friend.

Gom. I shall not put you to that trouble; no, not so much as a single visit; not so much as an embassy by a civil old woman, nor a serenade of twinkledum twinkledum under my windows; nay, I will advise you, out of my tenderness to your person, that you walk not near yon corner-house by night; for, to my certain knowledge, there are blunderbusses planted in every loop-hole, that go off constantly of their own accord, at the squeaking of a fiddle, and the thrumming of a guitar.

Lor. Art thou so obstinate? Then I denounce open war against thee; I'll demolish thy citadel by force; or, at least, I'll bring my whole regiment upon thee; my thousand red locusts, that shall devour thee in free quarters. Farewell, wrought night-cap. [Exit LORENZO.

Gom. Farewell, Buff. Free quarters for a regiment of red-coat locusts? I hope to see them all in the Red-Sea first! But oh, this Jezabel of mine! I'll get a physician that shall prescribe her an ounce of camphire every morning, for her breakfast, to abate incontinency. She shall never peep abroad, no, not to church for confession; and, for never going, she shall be condemned for a heretic. She shall have stripes by Troy weight, and sustenance by drachms and scruples: Nay, I'll have a fasting almanack, printed on purpose for her use, in which No Carnival nor Christmas shall appear, But lents and ember-weeks shall fill the year. [Exit.

ACT II.

SCENE I.—The Queen's Antechamber.

Enter ALPHONSO and PEDRO.

Alph. When saw you my Lorenzo?

Ped. I had a glimpse of him; but he shot by me, Like a young hound upon a burning scent; He's gone a harlot-hunting.

Alph. His foreign breeding might have taught him better.

Ped. 'Tis that has taught him this. What learn our youth abroad, but to refine The homely vices of their native land? Give me an honest home-spun country clown Of our own growth; his dulness is but plain, But theirs embroidered; they are sent out fools, But come back fops.

Alph. You know what reasons urged me; But now, I have accomplished my designs, I should be glad he knew them. His wild riots Disturb my soul; but they would sit more close, Did not the threatened downfal of our house, In Torrismond, o'erwhelm my private ills.

Enter BERTRAN, attended, and whispering with a Courtier, aside.

Bert. I would not have her think, he dared to love her; If he presume to own it, she's so proud, He tempts his certain ruin.

Alph. [To PED.] Mark how disdainfully he throws his eyes on us. Our old imprisoned king wore no such looks.

Ped. O! would the general shake off his dotage to the usurping queen, And re-enthrone good venerable Sancho, I'll undertake, should Bertran sound his trumpets, And Torrismond but whistle through his fingers, He draws his army off.

Alph. I told him so; But had an answer louder than a storm.

Ped. Now, plague and pox on his smock-loyalty! I hate to see a brave bold fellow sotted, Made sour and senseless, turned to whey by love; A drivelling hero, fit for a romance.— O, here he comes! what will their greetings be?

Enter TORRISMOND, attended; BERTRAN and he meet and jostle.

Bert. Make way, my lords, and let the pageant pass.

Tor. I make my way, where'er I see my foe; But you, my lord, are good at a retreat. I have no Moors behind me.

Bert. Death and hell! Dare to speak thus when you come out again.

Tor. Dare to provoke me thus, insulting man!

Enter TERESA.

Ter. My lords, you are too loud so near the queen; You, Torrismond, have much offended her. 'Tis her command you instantly appear, To answer your demeanour to the prince. [Exit TERESA; BERTRAN, with his company, follow her.

Tor. O, Pedro, O, Alphonso, pity me! A grove of pikes, Whose polished steel from far severely shines, Are not so dreadful as this beauteous queen.

Alph. Call up your courage timely to your aid, And, like a lion, pressed upon the toils, Leap on your hunters. Speak your actions boldly; There is a time when modest virtue is Allowed to praise itself.

Ped. Heart! you were hot enough, too hot, but now; Your fury then boiled upward to a foam; But since this message came, you sink and settle, As if cold water had been poured upon you.

Tor. Alas! thou know'st not what it is to love! When we behold an angel, not to fear, Is to be impudent: No, I am resolved, Like a led victim, to my death I'll go, And, dying, bless the hand, that gave the blow. [Exeunt.

The SCENE draws, and shews the Queen sitting in state; BERTRAN standing next to her; then TERESA, &c. She rises, and comes to the front.

Leonora. [To BERT.] I blame not you, my lord; my father's will, Your own deserts, and all my people's voice, Have placed you in the view of sovereign power. But I would learn the cause, why Torrismond, Within my palace-walls, within my hearing, Almost within my sight,—affronts a prince, Who shortly shall command him.

Bert. He thinks you owe him more than you can pay; And looks as he were lord of human kind.

Enter TORRISMOND, ALPHONSO, PEDRO. TORRISMOND bows low, then looks earnestly on the Queen, and keeps at Distance.

Teresa. Madam, the general.—

Leo. Let me view him well. My father sent him early to the frontiers; I have not often seen him; if I did, He passed unmarked by my unheeding eyes:— But where's the fierceness, the disdainful pride, The haughty port, the fiery arrogance?— By all these marks, this is not, sure, the man.

Bert. Yet this is he, who filled your court with tumult, Whose fierce demeanour, and whose insolence, The patience of a god could not support.

Leo. Name his offence, my lord, and he shall have Immediate punishment.

Bert. 'Tis of so high a nature, should I speak it, That my presumption then would equal his.

Leo. Some one among you speak.

Ped. Now my tongue itches. [Aside.

Leo. All dumb! On your allegiance, Torrismond, By all your hopes, I do command you, speak.

Tor. [Kneeling.] O seek not to convince me of a crime, Which I can ne'er repent, nor can you pardon; Or, if you needs will know it, think, oh think, That he who, thus commanded, dares to speak, Unless commanded, would have died in silence. But you adjured me, madam, by my hopes! Hopes I have none, for I am all despair; Friends I have none, for friendship follows favour; Desert I've none, for what I did was duty:— Oh that it were!—that it were duty all!

Leo. Why do you pause? proceed.

Tor. As one, condemned to leap a precipice, Who sees before his eyes the depth below, Stops short, and looks about for some kind shrub To break his dreadful fall.—so I— But whither am I going? If to death, He looks so lovely sweet in beauty's pomp, He draws me to his dart.—I dare no more.

Bert. He's mad, beyond the cure of hellebore. Whips, darkness, dungeons, for this insolence.

Tor. Mad as I am, yet I know when to bear.

Leo. You're both too bold.—You, Torrismond, withdraw, I'll teach you all what's owing to your queen.— For you, my lord,— The priest to-morrow was to join our hands; I'll try if I can live a day without you.— So both of you depart, and live in peace.

Alph. Who knows which way she points? Doubling and turning like an hunted hare;— Find out the meaning of her mind who can.

Pedr. Who ever found a woman's? backward and forward, The whole sex in every word. In my conscience, when she was getting, her mother was thinking of a riddle. [Exeunt all but the Queen and TERESA.

Leo. Haste, my Teresa, haste, and call him back.

Ter. Whom, madam?

Leo. Him.

Ter. Prince Bertran?

Leo. Torrismond; There is no other he.

Ter. [Aside.] A rising sun, Or I am much deceived. [Exit TERESA.

Leo. A change so swift what heart did ever feel! It rushed upon me like a mighty stream, And bore me, in a moment, far from shore. I loved away myself; in one short hour Already am I gone an age of passion. Was it his youth, his valour, or success? These might, perhaps, be found in other men: 'Twas that respect, that awful homage, paid me; That fearful love, which trembled in his eyes, And with a silent earthquake shook his soul. But, when he spoke, what tender words he said! So softly, that, like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.—

Enter TERESA with TORRISMOND.

Ter. He waits your pleasure.

Leo. 'Tis well; retire.—Oh heavens, that I must speak So distant from my heart!— [Aside. [To TOR.] How now! What boldness brings you back again?

Tor. I heard 'twas your command.

Leo. A fond mistake, To credit so unlikely a command; And you return, full of the same presumption, To affront me with your love!

Tor. If 'tis presumption, for a wretch condemned, To throw himself beneath his judge's feet: A boldness more than this I never knew; Or, if I did, 'twas only to your foes.

Leo. You would insinuate your past services, And those, I grant, were great; but you confess A fault committed since, that cancels all.

Tor. And who could dare to disavow his crime, When that, for which he is accused and seized, He bears about him still! My eyes confess it; My every action speaks my heart aloud: But, oh, the madness of my high attempt Speaks louder yet! and all together cry,— I love and I despair.

Leo. Have you not heard, My father, with his dying voice, bequeathed My crown and me to Bertran? And dare you, A private man, presume to love a queen?

Tor. That, that's the wound! I see you set so high, As no desert or services can reach.— Good heavens, why gave you me a monarch's soul, And crusted it with base plebeian clay? Why gave you me desires of such extent, And such a span to grasp them? Sure, my lot By some o'er-hasty angel was misplaced In fate's eternal volume!—But I rave, And, like a giddy bird in dead of night, Fly round the fire that scorches me to death.

Leo. Yet, Torrismond, you've not so ill deserved, But I may give you counsel for your cure.

Tor. I cannot, nay, I wish not to be cured.

Leo. [Aside.] Nor I, heaven knows!

Tor. There is a pleasure, sure, In being mad, which none but madmen know! Let me indulge it; let me gaze for ever! And, since you are too great to be beloved, Be greater, greater yet, and be adored.

Leo. These are the words which I must only hear From Bertran's mouth; they should displease from you: I say they should; but women are so vain, To like the love, though they despise the lover. Yet, that I may not send you from my sight In absolute despair,—I pity you.

Tor. Am I then pitied! I have lived enough!— Death, take me in this moment of my joy; But, when my soul is plunged in long oblivion, Spare this one thought! let me remember pity, And, so deceived, think all my life was blessed.

Leo. What if I add a little to my alms? If that would help, I could cast in a tear To your misfortunes.

Tor. A tear! You have o'erbid all my past sufferings, And all my future too!

Leo. Were I no queen— Or you of royal blood—

Tor. What have I lost by my forefathers' fault! Why was not I the twentieth by descent From a long restive race of droning kings? Love! what a poor omnipotence hast thou, When gold and titles buy thee?

Leo. [Sighs.] Oh, my torture!—

Tor. Might I presume,—but, oh, I dare not hope That sigh was added to your alms for me!

Leo. I give you leave to guess, and not forbid you To make the best construction for your love: Be secret and discreet; these fairy favours Are lost, when not concealed[1].—provoke not Bertran.— Retire: I must no more but this,—Hope, Torrismond. [Exit.

Tor. She bids me hope; oh heavens, she pities me! And pity still foreruns approaching love, As lightning does the thunder! Tune your harps, Ye angels, to that sound; and thou, my heart, Make room to entertain thy flowing joy. Hence, all my griefs and every anxious care; One word, and one kind glance, can cure despair. [Exit.

SCENE II.—A Chamber. A Table and Wine set out.

Enter LORENZO.

Lor. This may hit; 'tis more than barely possible; for friars have free admittance into every house. This jacobin, whom I have sent to, is her confessor; and who can suspect a man of such reverence for a pimp? I'll try for once; I'll bribe him high; for commonly none love money better than they, who have made a vow of poverty.

Enter Servant.

Serv. There's a huge, fat, religious gentleman coming up, sir. He says he's but a friar, but he's big enough to be a pope; his gills are as rosy as a turkey cock's; his great belly walks in state before him, like an harbinger; and his gouty legs come limping after it: Never was such a ton of devotion seen.

Lor. Bring him in, and vanish. [Exit Servant.

Enter Father DOMINICK.

Lor. Welcome, father.

Dom. Peace be here: I thought I had been sent for to a dying man; to have fitted him for another world.

Lor. No, faith, father, I was never for taking such long journeys. Repose yourself, I beseech you, sir, if those spindle legs of yours will carry you to the next chair.

Dom. I am old, I am infirm, I must confess, with fasting.

Lor. 'Tis a sign by your wan complexion, and your thin jowls, father. Come, to our better acquaintance:—here's a sovereign remedy for old age and sorrow. [Drinks.

Dom. The looks of it are indeed alluring: I'll do you reason. [Drinks.

Lor. Is it to your palate, father?

Dom. Second thoughts, they say, are best: I'll consider of it once again. [Drinks.] It has a most delicious flavour with it. Gad forgive me, I have forgotten to drink your health, Son, I am not used to be so unmannerly. [Drinks again.

Lor. No, I'll be sworn, by what I see of you, you are not:—To the bottom;—I warrant him a true church-man.—Now, father, to our business: 'tis agreeable to your calling; I do intend to do an act of charity.

Dom. And I love to hear of charity; 'tis a comfortable subject.

Lor. Being in the late battle, in great hazard of my life, I recommended my person to good Saint Dominick.

Dom. You could not have pitched upon a better; he's a sure card; I never knew him fail his votaries.

Lor. Troth, I also made bold to strike up a bargain with him, that, if I escaped with life and plunder, I would present some brother of his order with part of the booty taken from the infidels, to be employed in charitable uses.

Dom. There you hit him; Saint Dominick loves charity exceedingly; that argument never fails with him.

Lor. The spoils were mighty; and I scorn to wrong him of a farthing. To make short my story; I inquired among the jacobins for an almoner, and the general fame has pointed out your reverence as the worthiest man:—here are fifty good pieces in this purse.

Dom. How, fifty pieces? 'tis too much, too much in conscience.

Lor. Here, take them, father.

Dom. No, in troth, I dare not; do not tempt me to break my vow of poverty.

Lor. If you are modest, I must force you; for I am strongest.

Dom. Nay, if you compel me, there's no contending; but, will you set your strength against a decrepit, poor, old man? [Takes the Purse.] As I said, 'tis too great a bounty; but Saint Dominick shall owe you another scape: I'll put him in mind of you.

Lor. If you please, father, we will not trouble him 'till the next battle. But you may do me a greater kindness, by conveying my prayers to a female saint.

Dom. A female saint! good now, good now, how your devotions jump with mine! I always loved the female saints.

Lor. I mean, a female, mortal, married-woman-saint: Look upon the superscription of this note; you know Don Gomez's wife. [Gives him a Letter.

Dom. Who? Donna Elvira? I think I have some reason; I am her ghostly father.

Lor. I have some business of importance with her, which I have communicated in this paper; but her husband is so horribly given to be jealous,—

Dom. Ho, jealous? he's the very quintessence of jealousy; he keeps no male creature in his house; and from abroad he lets no man come near her.

Lor. Excepting you, father.

Dom. Me, I grant you; I am her director and her guide in spiritual affairs: But he has his humours with me too; for t'other day he called me false apostle.

Lor. Did he so? that reflects upon you all; on my word, father, that touches your copy-hold. If you would do a meritorious action, you might revenge the church's quarrel.—My letter, father,—

Dom. Well, so far as a letter, I will take upon me; for what can I refuse to a man so charitably given?

Lor. If you bring an answer back, that purse in your hand has a twin-brother, as like him as ever he can look; there are fifty pieces lie dormant in it, for more charities.

Dom. That must not be; not a farthing more, upon my priesthood.—But what may be the purport and meaning of this letter? that, I confess, a little troubles me.

Lor. No harm, I warrant you.

Dom. Well, you are a charitable man; and I'll take your word: my comfort is, I know not the contents; and so far I am blameless. But an answer you shall have; though not for the sake of your fifty pieces more: I have sworn not to take them; they shall not be altogether fifty. Your mistress—forgive me, that I should call her your mistress, I meant Elvira,—lives but at next door: I'll visit her immediately; but not a word more of the nine-and-forty pieces.

Lor. Nay, I'll wait on you down stairs.—Fifty pounds for the postage of a letter! to send by the church is certainly the dearest road in Christendom. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.—A Chamber.

Enter GOMEZ and ELVIRA.

Gom. Henceforth I banish flesh and wine: I'll have none stirring within these walls these twelve months.

Elv. I care not; the sooner I am starved, the sooner I am rid of wedlock. I shall learn the knack to fast o' days; you have used me to fasting nights already.

Gom. How the gipsey answers me! Oh, 'tis a most notorious hilding.

Elv. [Crying.] But was ever poor innocent creature so hardly dealt with, for a little harmless chat?

Gom. Oh, the impudence of this wicked sex! Lascivious dialogues are innocent with you!

Elv. Was it such a crime to inquire how the battle passed?

Gom. But that was not the business, gentlewoman: you were not asking news of a battle passed; you were engaging for a skirmish that was to come.

Elv. An honest woman would be glad to hear, that her honour was safe, and her enemies were slain.

Gom. [In her tone.] And to ask, if he were wounded in your defence; and, in case he were, to offer yourself to be his chirurgeon;—then, you did not describe your husband to him, for a covetous, jealous, rich, old hunks.

Elv. No, I need not; he describes himself sufficiently: but, in what dream did I do this?

Gom. You walked in your sleep, with your eyes broad open, at noon-day; and dreamt you were talking to the foresaid purpose with one Colonel Hernando—

Elv. Who, dear husband, who?

Gom. What the devil have I said?—You would have farther information, would you?

Elv. No; but my dear, little, old man, tell me now, that I may avoid him for your sake.

Gom. Get you up into your chamber, cockatrice; and there immure yourself; be confined, I say, during our royal pleasure. But, first, down on your marrowbones, upon your allegiance, and make an acknowledgement of your offences; for I will have ample satisfaction. [Pulls her down.

Elv. I have done you no injury, and therefore I'll make you no submission: but I'll complain to my ghostly father.

Gom. Ay, there's your remedy; when you receive condign punishment, you run with open mouth to your confessor; that parcel of holy guts and garbadge: he must chuckle you and moan you; but I'll rid my hands of his ghostly authority one day, [Enter DOMINICK.] and make him know he's the son of a—[Sees him.] So;—no sooner conjure, but the devil's in the circle.

Dom. Son of a what, Don Gomez?

Gom. Why, a son of a church; I hope there's no harm in that, father?

Dom. I will lay up your words for you, till time shall serve; and to-morrow I enjoin you to fast, for penance.

Gom. There's no harm in that; she shall fast too: fasting saves money. [Aside.

Dom. [To ELVIRA.] What was the reason that I found you upon your knees, in that unseemly posture?

Gom. O horrible! to find a woman upon her knees, he says, is an unseemly posture; there's a priest for you! [Aside.

Elv. [To DOM.] I wish, father, you would give me an opportunity of entertaining you in private: I have somewhat upon my spirits that presses me exceedingly.

Dom. This goes well: [Aside.] Gomez, stand you at a distance,—farther yet,—stand out of ear shot;—I have somewhat to say to your wife in private.

Gom. Was ever man thus priest-ridden? would the steeple of his church were in his belly: I am sure there's room for it. [Aside.

Elv. I am ashamed to acknowledge my infirmities; but you have been always an indulgent father, and therefore I will venture to—and yet I dare not!—

Dom. Nay, if you are bashful;—if you keep your wound from the knowledge of your surgeon,—

Elv. You know my husband is a man in years; but he's my husband, and therefore I shall be silent; but his humours are more intolerable than his age: he's grown so froward, so covetous, and so jealous, that he has turned my heart quite from him; and, if I durst confess it, has forced me to cast my affections on another man.

Dom. Good:—hold, hold; I meant abominable.—Pray heaven this may be my colonel! [Aside.

Elv. I have seen this man, father, and have encouraged his addresses; he's a young gentleman, a soldier, of a most winning carriage: and what his courtship may produce at last, I know not; but I am afraid of my own frailty.

Dom. 'Tis he, for certain;—she has saved the credit of my function, by speaking first; now must I take gravity upon me. [Aside.

Gom. This whispering bodes me no good, for certain; but he has me so plaguily under the lash, that I dare not interrupt him. [Aside.

Dom. Daughter, daughter, do you remember your matrimonial vow?

Elv. Yes, to my sorrow, father, I do remember it; a miserable woman it has made me: but you know, father, a marriage-vow is but a thing of course, which all women take when they would get a husband.

Dom. A vow is a very solemn thing; and 'tis good to keep it: but, notwithstanding, it may be broken upon some occasions. Have you striven with all your might against this frailty?

Elv. Yes, I have striven; but I found it was against the stream. Love, you know, father, is a great vow-maker; but he's a greater vow-breaker.

Dom. 'Tis your duty to strive always; but, notwithstanding, when we have done our utmost, it extenuates the sin.

Gom. I can hold no longer.—Now, gentlewoman, you are confessing your enormities; I know it, by that hypocritical downcast look:—enjoin her to sit bare upon a bed of nettles, father; you can do no less, in conscience.

Dom. Hold your peace; are you growing malapert? will you force me to make use of my authority? your wife's a well disposed and a virtuous lady; I say it, In verbo sacerdotis.

Elv. I know not what to do, father; I find myself in a most desperate condition; and so is the colonel, for love of me.

Dom. The colonel, say you! I wish it be not the same young gentleman I know. 'Tis a gallant young man, I must confess, worthy of any lady's love in Christendom,—in a lawful way, I mean: of such a charming behaviour, so bewitching to a woman's eye, and, furthermore, so charitably given; by all good tokens, this must be my colonel Hernando.

Elv. Ay, and my colonel too, father:—I am overjoyed!—and are you then acquainted with him?

Dom. Acquainted with him! why, he haunts me up and down; and, I am afraid, it is for love of you; for he pressed a letter upon me, within this hour, to deliver to you. I confess I received it, lest he should send it by some other; but with full resolution never to put it into your hands.

Elv. Oh, dear father, let me have it, or I shall die!

Gom. Whispering still! A pox of your close committee! I'll listen, I'm resolved. [Steals nearer.

Dom. Nay, if you are obstinately bent to see it, use your discretion; but, for my part, I wash my hands of it.—What makes you listening there? get farther off; I preach not to thee, thou wicked eaves dropper.

Elv. I'll kneel down, father, as if I were taking absolution, if you'll but please to stand before me.

Dom. At your peril be it then. I have told you the ill consequences; et liberavi animam meam. Your reputation is in danger, to say nothing of your soul. Notwithstanding, when the spiritual means have been applied, and fail, in that case the carnal may be used. You are a tender child, you are, and must not be put into despair; your heart is as soft and melting as your hand. [He strokes her face, takes her by the hand, and gives the letter.

Gom. Hold, hold, father, you go beyond your commission; palming is always held foul play amongst gamesters.

Dom. Thus good intentions are misconstrued by wicked men; you will never be warned till you are excommunicated.

Gom. Ah, devil on him; there's his hold! If there were no more in excommunication than the church's censure, a wise man would lick his conscience whole with a wet finger; but, if I am excommunicated, I am outlawed, and then there is no calling in my money. [Aside.

Elv. [Rising.] I have read the note, father, and will send him an answer immediately; for I know his lodgings by his letter.

Dom. I understand it not, for my part; but I wish your intentions be honest. Remember, that adultery, though it be a silent sin, yet it is a crying sin also. Nevertheless, if you believe absolutely he will die, unless you pity him; to save a man's life is a point of charity; and actions of charity do alleviate, as I may say, and take off from the mortality of the sin. Farewell, daughter.—Gomez, cherish your virtuous wife; and thereupon I give you my benediction. [Going.

Gom. Stay; I'll conduct you to the door,—that I may be sure you steal nothing by the way. Friars wear not their long sleeves for nothing.—Oh, 'tis a Judas Iscariot. [Exit after the Friar.

Elv. This friar is a comfortable man! He will understand nothing of the business, and yet does it all. Pray, wives and virgins, at your time of need, For a true guide, of my good father's breed. [Exit.

ACT III.

SCENE I.—The Street.

Enter LORENZO in a Friars Habit, meeting DOMINICK.

Lor. Father Dominick, father Dominick; why in such haste, man?

Dom. It should seem, a brother of our order.

Lor. No, faith, I am only your brother in iniquity; my holiness, like yours, is mere outside.

Dom. What! my noble colonel in metamorphosis! On what occasion are you transformed?

Lor. Love, almighty love; that, which turned Jupiter into a town-bull, has transformed me into a friar. I have had a letter from Elvira, in answer to that I sent by you.

Dom. You see I have delivered my message faithfully; I am a friar of honour, where I am engaged.

Lor. O, I understand your hint; the other fifty pieces are ready to be condemned to charity.

Dom. But this habit, son! this habit!

Lor. It is a habit, that, in all ages, has been friendly to fornication: you have begun the design in this clothing, and I'll try to accomplish it. The husband is absent, that evil counsellor is removed and the sovereign is graciously disposed to hear my grievances.

Dom. Go to, go to; I find good counsel is but thrown away upon you. Fare you well, fare you well, son! Ah—

Lor. How! will you turn recreant at the last cast? You must along to countenance my undertaking: we are at the door, man.

Dom. Well, I have thought on't, and I will not go.

Lor. You may stay, father, but no fifty pounds without it; that was only promised in the bond: "But the condition of this obligation is such, that if the above-named father, father Dominick, do not well and faithfully perform—"

Dom. Now I better think on't, I will bear you company; for the reverence of my presence may be a curb to your exorbitancies.

Lor. Lead up your myrmidons, and enter. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—ELVIRA'S Chamber.

Enter ELVIRA.

Elv. He'll come, that's certain; young appetites are sharp, and seldom need twice bidding to such a banquet. Well, if I prove frail,—as I hope I shall not till I have compassed my design,—never woman had such a husband to provoke her, such a lover to allure her, or such a confessor to absolve her. Of what am I afraid, then? not my conscience, that's safe enough; my ghostly father has given it a dose of church-opium, to lull it. Well, for soothing sin, I'll say that for him, he's a chaplain for any court in Christendom.

Enter LORENZO and DOMINICK.

O, father Dominick, what news?—How, a companion with you! What game have you in hand, that you hunt in couples?

Lor. [Lifting up his Hood.] I'll shew you that immediately.

Elv. O, my love!

Lor. My life!

Elv. My soul! [They embrace.

Dom. I am taken on the sudden with a grievous swimming in my head, and such a mist before my eyes, that I can neither hear nor see.

Elv. Stay, and I'll fetch you some comfortable water.

Dom. No, no; nothing but the open air will do me good. I'll take a turn in your garden; but remember that I trust you both, and do not wrong my good opinion of you. [Exit DOMINICK.

Elv. This is certainly the dust of gold which you have thrown in the good man's eyes, that on the sudden he cannot see; for my mind misgives me, this sickness of his is but apocryphal.

Lor. 'Tis no qualm of conscience, I'll be sworn. You see, madam, it is interest governs all the world. He preaches against sin; why? because he gets by it: He holds his tongue; why? because so much more is bidden for his silence.

Elv. And so much for the friar.

Lor. Oh, those eyes of yours reproach me justly, that I neglect the subject which brought me hither.

Elv. Do you consider the hazard I have run to see you here? if you do, methinks it should inform you, that I love not at a common rate.

Lor. Nay, if you talk of considering, let us consider why we are alone. Do you think the friar left us together to tell beads? Love is a kind of penurious god, very niggardly of his opportunities: he must be watched like a hard-hearted treasurer; for he bolts out on the sudden, and, if you take him not in the nick, he vanishes in a twinkling.

Elv. Why do you make such haste to have done loving me? You men are all like watches, wound up for striking twelve immediately; but after you are satisfied, the very next that follows, is the solitary sound of a single—one!

Lor. How, madam! do you invite me to a feast, and then preach abstinence?

Elv. No, I invite you to a feast where the dishes are served up in order: you are for making a hasty meal, and for chopping up your entertainment, like a hungry clown. Trust my management, good colonel, and call not for your desert too soon: believe me, that which comes last, as it is the sweetest, so it cloys the soonest.

Lor. I perceive, madam, by your holding me at this distance, that there is somewhat you expect from me: what am I to undertake, or suffer, ere I can be happy?

Elv. I must first be satisfied, that you love me.

Lor. By all that's holy! by these dear eyes!—

Elv. Spare your oaths and protestations; I know you gallants of the time have a mint at your tongue's end to coin them.

Lor. You know you cannot marry me; but, by heavens, if you were in a condition—

Elv. Then you would not be so prodigal of your promises, but have the fear of matrimony before your eyes. In few words, if you love me, as you profess, deliver me from this bondage, take me out of Egypt, and I'll wander with you as far as earth, and seas, and love, can carry us.

Lor. I never was out at a mad frolic, though this is the maddest I ever undertook. Have with you, lady mine; I take you at your word; and if you are for a merry jaunt, I'll try for once who can foot it farthest. There are hedges in summer, and barns in winter, to be found; I with my knapsack, and you with your bottle at your back: we will leave honour to madmen, and riches to knaves; and travel till we come to' the ridge of the world, and then drop together into the next.

Elv. Give me your hand, and strike a bargain. [He takes her hand, and kisses it.

Lor. In sign and token whereof, the parties interchangeably, and so forth.—When should I be weary of sealing upon this soft wax?

Elv. O heavens! I hear my husband's voice.

Enter GOMEZ.

Gom. Where are you, gentlewoman? there's something in the wind, I'm sure, because your woman would have run up stairs before me; but I have secured her below, with a gag in her chaps.—Now, in the devil's name, what makes this friar here again? I do not like these frequent conjunctions of the flesh and spirit; they are boding.

Elv. Go hence, good father; my husband, you see, is in an ill humour, and I would not have you witness of his folly. [LORENZO going.

Gom. [Running to the door.] By your reverence's favour, hold a little; I must examine you something better, before you go.—Heyday! who have we here? Father Dominick is shrunk in the wetting two yards and a half about the belly. What are become of those two timber logs, that he used to wear for legs, that stood strutting like the two black posts before a door? I am afraid some bad body has been setting him over a fire in a great cauldron, and boiled him down half the quantity, for a recipe. This is no father Dominick, no huge overgrown abbey-lubber; this is but a diminutive sucking friar. As sure as a gun, now, father Dominick has been spawning this young slender anti-christ.

Elv. He will be found, there's no prevention. [Aside.

Gom. Why does he not speak? What! is the friar possessed with a dumb devil? if he be, I shall make bold to conjure him.

Elv. He is but a novice in his order, and is enjoined silence for a penance.

Gom. A novice, quotha! you would make a novice of me, too, if you could. But what was his business here? answer me that, gentlewoman, answer me that.

Elv. What should it be, but to give me some spiritual instructions.

Gom. Very good; and you are like to edify much from a dumb preacher. This will not pass, I must examine the contents of him a little closer.—O thou confessor, confess who thou art, or thou art no friar of this world!—[He comes to LORENZO, who struggles with him; his Habit flies open, and discovers a Sword; GOMEZ starts back.]—As I live, this is a manifest member of the church militant.

Lor. [Aside.] I am discovered; now, impudence be my refuge.—Yes, faith, 'tis I, honest Gomez; thou seest I use thee like a friend; this is a familiar visit.

Gom. What! colonel Hernando turned a friar! who could have suspected you of so much godliness?

Lor. Even as thou seest, I make bold here.

Gom. A very frank manner of proceeding; but I do not wonder at your visit, after so friendly an invitation as I made you. Marry, I hope you will excuse the blunderbusses for not being in readiness to salute you; but let me know your hour, and all shall be mended another time.

Lor. Hang it, I hate such ripping up of old unkindness: I was upon the frolic this evening, and came to visit thee in masquerade.

Gom. Very likely; and not finding me at home, you were forced to toy away an hour with my wife, or so.