Enter ANTONIO.

?

Ant. Well, my Louisa, any news since I left you Louisa. None-the messenger is not yet returned from my father.

Ant. Well, I confess, I do not perceive what we are to expect from him.

Louisa. I shall be easier, however, in having made the trial. I do not doubt your sincerity, Antonio; but there is a chilling air around poverty, that often kills affection, that was not nursed in it. If we would make love our household god, we had best secure him a comfortable roof.

SONG.-ANTONIO.

How oft, Louisa, hast thou told,

Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown,
Thou would'st not lose Antonio's love,
To reign the partner of a throne.
And by those lips, that spoke so kind,
And by that hand, I've press'd to mine,
To be the lord of wealth and power,

By Heav'ns, I would not part with thine!
Then how, my soul, can we be poor,

Who own what kingdoms could not buy?
Of this true heart thou shalt be queen,-
In serving thee, a monarch I.

Thus uncontroll'd, in mutual bliss,

And rich in love's exhaustless mine,
Do thou snatch treasures from my lips,
And I'll take kingdoms back from thine.

Enter MAID with a letter.

Louisa. My father's answer, I suppose.

Ant. My dearest Louisa, you may be assured, that it contains nothing but threats and reproaches.

Louisa. Let us see, however.- [Reads.] 'Dearest daughter, make your lover happy: you have my full consent to marry as your whim has chosen; but be

sure come home, and sup with your affectionate father.'

Ant. You jest, Louisa!

Louisa. [Gives him the letter.] Read-read.

Ant. 'Tis so, by Heavens! Sure there must be some mistake; but that's none of our business.-Now, Louisa, you have no excuse for delay.

Louisa. Shall we not then return, and thank my father?

Ant. But first let the priest put it out of his power to recall his word.-I'll fly to procure one.

Louisa. Nay, if you part with me again, perhaps you may lose me,

Ant. Come, then-there is a friar of a neighbouring convent who is my friend. You have already been diverted by the manners of a nunnery: let us see whether there is less hypocrisy among the holy fathers.

Louisa. I'm afraid not, Antonio-for in religion, as in friendship, they who profess most are ever the least sincere. [Exeunt.

Enter CLARA.

Clara. So, yonder they go, as happy as a mutual and confessed affection can make them, while I am left in solitude. Heigho! love may perhaps excuse the rashness of an elopement from one's friend, but I am sure, nothing but the presence of the man we love can support it. Ha! What do I see! Ferdinand, as I live! How could he gain admission? By potent gold, I suppose, as Antonio did. How eager and disturbed he seems! He shall not know me as yet.

Enter FERDINAND.

[Draws her veil.

Ferd. Yes, those were certainly they: my information was right.

[Going. Clara. [Stops him.] Pray, Signior, what is your business here?

Ferd. No matter-no matter! Oh, they stop. [Looks out.] Yes, that is the perfidious Clara, indeed!

Clara. So, a jealous error. I'm glad to see him so

moved.

[A side. Ferd. Her disguise can't conceal her. No, no; I know her too well.

Clara. Wonderful discernment! But, Signior

Ferd. Be quiet, good nun! don't tease me. By Heavens, she leans upon his arm,-hangs fondly on it! O woman! woman!

Clara. But, Signior, who is it you want?

Ferd. Not you, not you; so pr'ythee don't tease me. Yet, pray stay. Gentle nun, was it not Donna Clara d'Almanza just parted from you?

Clara. Clara d'Almanza, Signior, is not yet out of the garden.

Ferd. Ay, ay; I knew I was right. And pray, is not that gentleman, now at the porch with her, Antonio d'Ercilla?

Clara. It is indeed, Signior.

Can

Ferd. So, so; now but one question more. you inform me for what purpose they have gone away? Clara. They are gone to be married, I believe. Ferd. Very well:-enough. Now if I don't mar their wedding! [Èxit. Clara. [Unveils.] 1 thought jealousy had made lovers quick-sighted; but it has made mine blind. Louisa's story accounts to me for this error, and I am glad to find I have power enough over him to make him so unhappy. But why should not I be present at his surprise when undeceived? When he's through the porch, I'll follow him; and, perhaps, Louisa shall not singly be a bride.

SONG.

Adieu, thou dreary pile, where never dies
The sullen echo of repentant sighs:
Ye sister mourners of each lonely cell,
Inured to hymns and sorrow, fare ye well;
For happier scenes I fly this darksome grove,-
To saints a prison, but a tomb to love.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.-A Court before the Priory.

Enter ISAAC and ANTONIO.

Ant. What, my friend Isaac!

Isaac. What, Antonio! wish me joy! I have Louisa safe.

Ant. Have you?—I wish you joy, with all my soul. Isaac. Yes, I am come here to procure a priest to marry us.

Ant. So, then we are both on the same errand. I am come to look for Father Paul.

Isaac. Hah! I am glad on't: but, i'faith, he must tack me first, my love is waiting.

Ant. So is mine: I left her in the porch.

Isaac. Ay, but I am in haste to get back to Don Jerome.

Ant. And so am I, too.

Isaac. Well, perhaps he'll save time, and marry us both together-or I'll be your father, and you shall be mine. Come along: but you're obliged to me for

all this.

Ant. Yes, yes.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.-A Room in the Priory-FRIARS at the table drinking.

GLEE AND CHORUS.

This bottle's the sun of our table,
His beams are rosy wine;
We, planets, that are not able,
Without his help to shine.
Let mirth and glee abound,
You'll soon grow bright
With borrow'd light,
d shine as he goes round.

Paul. Brother Francis, toss the bottle about, and give me your toast.

Francis. Have we drank the abbess of St. Ursuline?

Paul. Yes, yes; she was the last.

Francis. Then I'll give you the blue-eyed nun of St. Catharine's.

Paul. With all my heart. [Drinks.] Pray, brother Augustine, were there any benefactions left in my absence?

Francis. Don Juan Corduba has left a hundred ducats, to remember him in our masses.

Paul. Has he? Let them be paid to our winemerchant, and we'll remember him in our cups, which will do just as well. Any thing more?

Aug. Yes; Baptista, the rich miser, who died last week, has bequeathed us a thousand pistoles, and the silver lamp he used in his own chamber, to burn before the image of St. Anthony.

Paul. 'Twas well meant; but we'll employ his money better. Baptista's bounty shall light the living, not the dead. St. Anthony is not afraid to be deft in the dark though he was-See, who's there. [A knocking, FRANCIS goes to the door and opens it.

Enter PORTER.

Porter. Here's one without, in pressing haste to speak with Father Paul.

Francis. Brother Paul.

[Paul comes from behind a curtain, with a glass of Wine, and in his hand a piece of cake. Paul. Here! how durst you, fellow, thus abruptly break in upon our devotions?

Porter. I thought they were finished.

Paul. No, they were not-were they, Brother Francis?

Francis. Not by a bottle each.

Paul. But neither you nor your fellows mark how the hours go: no, you mind nothing but the gratifying of your appetites: ye eat, and swill, and sleep, and gormandize, and thrive, while we are wasting in mortification.

Porter. We ask no more than nature craves.