Lou. My father's oath was, never to see me 'till I had consented to

Duen. 'Twas thus I overheard him say to his friend Don Guzman; "I will demand of her tomorrow, once for all, whether she will consent to marry Isaac Mendoza: if she hesitate, I will make a solemn oath never to see or speak to her, 'till she returns to her duty." These were his words.

Lou. And, on his known obstinate adherence to what he has once said, you have formed this plan for my escape. But have you secured my

maid in our interest?

Duen. She is a party in the whole; but remember, if we succeed, you resign all right and title in little Isaac, the Jew, over to me.

Lou. That I do with all my soul; get him, if you can, and I shall wish you joy most heartily. He is twenty times as rich as my poor Antonio.

AIR.-LOUISA.

Thou canst not boast of fortune's store,
My love, while me they wealthy call,
But I was glad to find thee poor,
For with my heart I'd give thee all;
And then the grateful youth shall own,
I lov'd him for himself alone.

But when his worth my hand shall gain,
No word or look of mine shall show
That I the smallest thought retain
Of what my bounty did bestow;

Yet still his grateful heart shall own,
I lov'd him for himself alone.

Duen. I hear Don Jerome coming. Quick, give me the last letter I brought you from Antonio; you know that is to be the ground of my dismission. I mast slip out to seal it up, as undelivered. [Exit.

Enter DON JEROME and FERDINAND. Jer. What! I suppose you have been serenading too, eh? Disturbing some peaceable neighbourhood with villainous catgut, and lascivious Piping Out on't! You set your sister here a vile example; but I come to tell you, madam, that I'll saffer no more of these midnight incantations; these amorous orgies, that steal the senses in the bearing; as, they say, Egyptian embalmers serve mammies, extracting the brain through the ears. However, there is an end of your frolics: Isaac Mendoza will be here presently, and, to-morrow, you shall marry him.

Lou. Never, while I have life. Ferd. Indeed, sir, I wonder how you can think of such a man for a son-in-law.

Jer. Sir, you are very kind, to favour me with Your sentiments; and pray, what is your objection to him?

Ferd. He is a Portuguese, in the first place. Jer. No such thing, boy; he has forsworn his

country.

Lou. He is a Jew. Jer. Another mistake: he has been a Christian these six weeks.

Ferd. Aye, he left his old religion for an estate, and has not had time to get a new one. Lou. But stands like a dead wall between church and synagogue, or like the blank leaves between the Old and New Testament. Jer. Anything more?

Ferd. But the most remarkable part of his character is his passion for deceit and tricks of cunning.

Lou. Though, at the same time, the fool predominates so much over the knave, that I am told he is generally the dupe of his own art.

misses his aim, and is hurt by the recoil of his Ferd. True; like an unskilful gunner, he usually own piece.

Jer. Anything more?

Lou. To sum up all, he has the worst fault a husband can have-he's not my choice.

Jer. But you are his: and choice on one side is sufficient. Two lovers should never meet in marriage. Be you sour as you please, he is sweettempered; and for your good fruit, there's nothing like ingrafting on a crab.

Lou. I detest him as a lover, and shall ten times more as a husband.

Jer. I don't know that: marriage generally makes a great change; but, to cut the matter short, will you have him or not?

Lou. There is nothing else I could disobey you in.

Jer. Do you value your father's peace?
Lou. So much, that I will not fasten on him

the regret of making an only daughter wretched.

Jer. Very well, ma'am; then mark me: never more will I see or converse with you 'till you return to your duty. No reply. This and your chamber shall be your apartments; I never will stir out, without leaving you under lock and key; and when I'm at home, no creature can approach you but through my library. We'll try who can be most obstinate. Out of my sight! There remain 'till you know your duty. (Pushes her out.)

Ferd. Surely, sir, my sister's inclinations should be consulted in a matter of this kind, and some regard paid to Don Antonio being my particular friend.

Jer. That, doubtless, is a very great recomrespect to it. mendation: I certainly have not paid sufficient

Ferd. There is not a man living I would sooner choose for a brother-in-law.

Jer. Very possible; and if you happen to have e'er a sister, who is not at the same time a daughter of mine, I'm sure I shall have no objection to the relationship; but at present, if you please, we'll drop the subject.

Ferd. Nay, sir, 'tis only my regard for my sister makes me speak.

Jer. Then pray, sir, in future, let your regard for your father make you hold your tongue.

Ferd. I have done, sir. I shall only add a wish that you would reflect what at our age you would have felt, had you been crossed in your affection for the mother of her you are so severe to.

Jer. Why, I must confess I had a great affection for your mother's ducats; but that was all, boy. I married her for her fortune, and she took me in obedience to her father, and a very happy couple we were. We never expected any love from one another, and so we were never disappointed. If we grumbled a little now and then it was soon over, for we were never fond enough to quarrel, and when the good woman died, why, why-I had as lief she had lived; and I wish every widower in Seville could say the same. I shall now go and get the key of this dressingroom; so, good son, if you have any lecture in support of disobedience to give your sister, it must be brief; so make the best of your time, d'ye hear?

[Exit.

Ferd. I fear, indeed, my friend Antonio has little to hope for. However, Louisa has firmness, and my father's anger will probably only increase her affection. In our intercourse with the world,

it is natural for us to dislike those who are innocently the cause of our distress; but in the heart's attachment a woman never likes a man with ardour 'till she has suffered for his sake. (Noise.) So! what bustle is here? Between my father and the Duenna too! I'll e'en get out of the way. [Exit.

Enter DON JEROME with a letter, pulling in the DUENNA.

Jer. I'm astonished! I'm thunder-struck! Here's treachery and conspiracy with a vengeance! You, Antonio's creature, a chief manager of this plot for my daughter's eloping! you, that I placed

here as a scarecrow?

Duen. What? Jer. A scarecrow. To prove a decoy-duck! What have you to say for yourself?

Duen. Well, sir, since you have forced that letter from me, and discovered my real sentiments, I scorn to renounce them: I am Antonio's friend, and it was my intention that your daughter should have served you as all such old tyrannical sots should be served: I delight in the tender passions, and would befriend all under their influence.

Jer. The tender passions! Yes, they would become those impenetrable features! Why, thou deceitful hag! I placed thee as a guard to the rich blossoms of my daughter's beauty-I thought that dragon's front of thine would cry "aloof!" to the sons of gallantry. Steel traps and spring guns seemed written in every wrinkle of it. But you shall quit my house this instant. The tender passions, indeed! Go, thou wanton sybil, thou amorous woman of Endor, go.

Duen. You base, scurrillous, old-but I won't demean myself by naming what you are. Yes, savage, I'll leave your den; but I suppose you don't mean to detain my apparel. I may have my things, I presume?

on.

Jer. I took you, mistress, with your wardrobe What have you pilfered, eh?

Duen. Sir, I must take my leave of my mistress; she has valuables of mine; besides, my cardinal and veil are in her room.

Jer. Your veil, forsooth! What, do you dread being gazed at? Are you afraid of your complexion? Well, go take your leave, and get your veil and cardinal. So; you quit the house within these five minutes. In, in, quick! (Exit Duenna.) Here was a precious plot of mischief. These are the comforts daughters bring us.

Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

When scarce in their teens, they have wit to perplex us;
With letters and lovers for ever they vex us;
While each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought
her;

Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
Wrangling and jangling,

Flouting and pouting,

Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

Enter LOUISA dressed as the DUENNA, with cardinal and veil, seeming to cry.

Jer. This way, mistress, this way. What! I warrant a tender parting. So! tears of turpentine down those deal cheeks. Aye, you may well hide your head-Yes, whine till your heart breaks; but I'll not hear one word of excuse; so, you are right to be dumb. This way, this way. [Exeunt.

Enter DUENNA.

Duen. So speed you well, sagacious Don Jerome! Oh, rare effects of passion and obstinacy! Now shall I try whether I can't play the fine lady as well as my mistress; and, if I succeed, I may be a fine lady for the rest of my life. I'll lose no time to equip myself. [Exit.

SCENE IV. The Court before Don Jerome's house. Enter DON JEROME and LOUISA.

world lies before you; so troop, thou antiquated Jer. Come, mistress; there is your way. The Eve, thou original sin: Hold, yonder is some fellow skulking; perhaps it is Antonio. Go to him, d'ye hear? and tell him to make you amends, and as he has got you turned away, tell him I say it is Louisa.) So! I am rid of her, thank heaven! and but just he should take you himself; go. (Exit my daughter with better security. now I shall be able to keep my oath, and confine [Exit.

SCENE V.-The Piazza. Enter CLARA and her Maid. Maid. But where, madam, is it you intend to go?

Cla. Anywhere to avoid the selfish violence of my mother-in-law, and Ferdinand's insolent importunity.

Maid. Indeed, ma'am, since we have profited by Don Ferdinand's key, in making our escape, I think we had best find him, if it were only to thank

him.

Cla. No; he has offended me exceedingly. [Retires.

Enter LOUISA.

Lou. So, I have succeeded in being turned out of doors. But how shall I find Antonio? I dare not enquire for him, for fear of being discovered; I would send to my friend Clara, but that I doubt her prudery would condemn me.

Maid. Then suppose, ma'am, you were to try if your friend Donna Louisa would not receive you. (To Clara.)

Cla. No, her notions of filial duty are so severe, she would certainly betray me.

Lou. Clara is of a cold temper, and would think this step of mine highly forward.

Cla. Louisa's respect for her father is so great, she would not credit the unkindness of mine. (Aside, not seeing each other. Louisa turns, and sees Clara and Maid.)

Lou. Ha! who are those? Sure one is Clara. If it be, I'll trust her. Clara! (Advances.) Cla. Louisa! and in masquerade too! Lou. You will be more surprised when I tell you, that I have run away from my father.

Cla. Surprised indeed! and I should certainly chide you most horridly, only that I have just run away from mine.

Lou. My dear Clara! (They embrace.) Cla. Dear sister truant! And whither are you going?

Lou. To find the man I love, to be sure; and, I presume, you would have no aversion to meet with my brother.

Cla. Indeed I should. He has behaved so ill to me, I don't believe I shall ever forgive him.

AIR.-CLARA.

When sable night, each drooping plant restoring,
Wept o'er the flowers her breath did cheer,
As some sad widow o'er her babe deploring,
Wakes its beauty with a tear;

When all did sleep, whose weary hearts did borrow
One hour from love and care to rest,
Lo! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow,
My lover caught me to his breast.

He vow'd he came to save me

From those who would enslave me;
Then kneeling,
Kisses stealing,

Endless faith he swore;

But soon I chid him thence;
For had his fond pretence
Obtain'd one favour then,
And he had press'd again,

I fear'd my treacherous heart might grant him more.

Lou. Well, for all this, I would have sent him to plead his pardon, but that I would not yet awhile have him know of my flight. And where do you hope to find protection?

Cla. The lady abbess of the convent of St. Catherine is a relation and kind friend of mine; I shall be secure with her, and you had best go thither with me.

Lou. No; I am determined to find Antonio first; and, as I live, here comes the very man I will employ to seek him for me.

Cla. Who is he? He's a strange figure! Lou. Yes; that sweet creature is the man whom my father has fixed on for my husband. Cla. And will you speak to him? Are you mad?

Lou. He is the fittest man in the world for my purpose; for, though I was to have married him to-morrow, he is the only man in Seville, who, I am sure, never saw me in his life.

Cla. And how do you know him?

Lou. He arrived but yesterday, and he was shown to me from the window, as he visited my father.

Cla. Well, I'll begone.

Lou. Hold, my dear Clara. A thought has struck me. Will you give me leave to borrow your name, as I see occasion?

Cla. It will but disgrace you; but use it as you please. I dare not stay; (going.) but, Louisa, if you should see your brother, be sure you don't inform him, that I have taken refuge with the Dame Prior of the convent of St. Catherine, on the lefthand side of the piazza, which leads to the church of St. Anthony.

Lou. Ha! ha! ha! I'll be very particular in my directions where he may not find you. (Exeunt Clara and Maid.) So! my swain yonder has done admiring himself, and draws nearer. [Retires. Enter ISAAC and CARLOS, ISAAC with a pocketglass.

Isa. (Looking in the glass.) I tell you friend Carlos, I will please myself in the habit of my chin. Car. But, my dear friend, how can you think to please a lady with such a face?

Isa. Why, what's the matter with the face? I think it is a very engaging face; and, I am sure, a lady must have very little taste, who could dislike my beard. (Sees Louisa.) See now: I'll die, if here is not a little damsel struck with it already.

Lou. Signor, are you disposed to oblige a lady, who greatly wants your assistance? (Unveils.) Isa. Egad! a very pretty black-eyed girl! She bas certainly taken a fancy to me, Carlos. First ma'am, I must beg the favour of your name.

Lou. So it's well I am provided. (Aside.) My name, sir, is Donna Clara d'Almanza.

Isa. What! Don Guzman's daughter? I'faith, I just now heard she was missing.

Lou. But sure, sir, you have too much gallantry and honour to betray me, whose fault is love?

Isa. So! a passion for me! Poor girl! (Aside.) Why, ma'am, as for betraying you, I don't see how I could get anything by it: so you may rely on my honour; but as for your love, I am sorry your case is so desperate.

Isa. No, no, what should I hear you for? It is impossible for me to court you in an honourable way; and, for any thing else, if I were to comply now, I suppose you have some ungrateful brother, or cousin, that would want to cut my throat for my civility; so, truly, you had best go home again.

Lou. Odious wretch! (Aside.) But, good signor, it is Antonio d'Ercilla, on whose account I have eloped.

Isa. How! what? It is not with me, then, that you are in love?

Lou. No, indeed, it is not.

Isa. Then you are a forward, impertinent, simpleton; and I shall certainly acquaint your father. Lou. Is this your gallantry?

Isa. Yet hold-Antonio d'Ercilla, did you say? Egad! I may make something of this. Antonio d'Ercilla?

Lou. Yes; and, if ever you hope to prosper in love, you will bring me to him.

Isa. By St. Iago, and I will too. Carlos, this Antonio is one who rivals me (as I have heard) with Louisa! Now, if I could hamper him with this girl, I should have the field to myself; eh, Carlos! A lucky thought, isn't it?

Car. Yes, very good; very good.

Isa. Ah! this little brain is never at a loss. Cunning Isaac! cunning rogue! Donna Clara, will you trust yourself awhile to my friend's direction?

Lou. May I rely on you, good signor?
Car. Lady, it is impossible I should deceive
AIR. CARLOS.

you.

Had I a heart for falsehood fram'd,
I ne'er could injure you;

For though your tongue no promise claim'd,
Your charms would make me true:
To you no soul shall bear deceit,

No stranger offer wrong;
But friends in all the ag'd you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.

But when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,
They'll bid aspiring passions rest,
And act a brother's part;
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong;
For friends in all the ag'd you'll meet,

And lovers in the young.

Isa. Carlos, conduct the lady to my lodgings; I must haste to Don Jerome: perhaps you know Louisa, ma'am. She is divinely handsome; isn't

she?

Isa.

Your servant, protector, and guide.

SCENE I-A Library in Don Jerome's house.
Enter DON JEROME and ISAAC.

Jer. Ha! ha! ha! run away from her father! Has she given him the slip? Ha! ha! ha! Poor Don Guzman!

Isa. Aye; and I am to conduct her to Antonio; by which means, you see, I shall hamper him so that he can give me no disturbance with your daughter: this is a trap, isn't it? a nice stroke of cunning, eh?

Jer. Excellent! excellent! Yes, yes, carry her to him, hamper him by all means, ha! ha! ha! Poor Don Guzman! an old fool! imposed on by a girl!

Isa. Nay, they have the cunning of serpents, that's the truth on't.

Jer. Psha! they are cunning only when they have fools to deal with. Why don't my girl play me such a trick? Let her cunning over-reach my caution, I say-eh, little Isaac ?

Isa. True, true; or let me see any of the sex make a fool of me. No, no, egad! little Solomon, (as my aunt used to call me) understands tricking à little too well.

Jer. Aye, but such a driveller as Don Guzman. Isa. And such a dupe as Antonio. Jer. True; sure never were seen such a couple of credulous simpletons; but, come, 'tis time you should see my daughter: you must carry on the siege by yourself, friend Isaac.

Isa. Sir, you'll introduce

Jer. No; I have sworn a solemn oath not to see or speak to her, 'till she renounce her disobedience; win her to that, and she gains a father and a husband at once.

Isa. Gad! I shall never be able to deal with her alone. Nothing keeps me in such awe as perfect beauty: now there is something consoling and encouraging in ugliness.

SONG. ISAAC.

Give Isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast,
But health and good-humour to make her his toast;
If straight, I don't mind whether slender or fat,
And six feet or four-we'll ne'er quarrel for that.
Whate'er her complexion, I vow I don't care;
If brown, it is lasting; more pleasing if fair;
And though in her face I no dimples should see,
Let her smile, and each dell is a dimple to me.
Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen,
And her eyes may be e'en any colour but green;

I swear I've no choice; only let her have two.
'Tis true I'd dispense with a throne on her back,
And white teeth, I own, are genteeler than black;
A little round chin too's a beauty, I've heard,
But I only desire she mayn't have a beard.

Jer. You will change your note, my friend, when you've seen Louisa.

Isa. Oh, Don Jerome, the honour of your alliance

Jer. Aye, but her beauty will affect you. She is, though I say it, who am her father, a very prodigy. There you will see features with an eye like mine; yes i'faith! there is a kind of wicked sparkling; something of a roguish brightness, that shows her to be my own.

Isa. Pretty rogue!

Jer. Then, when she smiles, you'll see a little dimple in one cheek only; a beauty it is certainly, yet you shall not say which is prettiest, the cheek with the dimple, or the cheek without.

Isa. Pretty rogue!

Jer. Then the roses on those cheeks are shaded with a sort of velvet down, that gives a delicacy to the glow of health.

Isa. Pretty rogue!

Jer. Her skin pure dimity, yet more fair, being spangled here and there with a golden freckle. Isa. Charming, pretty rogue! Pray how is the tone of her voice?

Jer. Remarkably pleasing; but if you could prevail on her to sing, you would be enchanted: she is a nightingale; a Virginia nightingale; but, come, come, her maid shall conduct you to her ante-chamber.

Isa. Well, egad! I'll pluck up resolution, and meet her frowns intrepidly.

Jer. Aye, woo her briskly. Win her, and give me a proof of your address, my little Solomon. Isa. But, hold. I expect my friend Carlos to call on me here. If he comes, will you send him to me?

Jer. I will. Lauretta! Come; she'll show you to the room. What do you droop? Here's a mournful face to make love with! [Exeun!.

SCENE II.-Louisa's Dressing-room. Enter Maid and ISAAC. Maid. Sir, my mistress will wait on you presently. (Goes to the door.)

Isa. When she's at leisure; don't hurry her. (Exit Maid.) I wish I had ever practised a love scene. I doubt I shall make a poor figure. I couldn't be more afraid if I was going before the inquisition! So! the door opens; yes, she's coming; the very rustling of her silk has a disdainful sound.

Enter DUENNA, dressed as LOUISA. Now daren't I look round for the soul of me. Her beauty will certainly strike me dumb if I do. I wish she'd speak first.

Duen. Sir, I attend your pleasure.

Isa. So! the ice is broken, and a pretty civil beginning, too. Hem! madam-miss, I'm all

attention.

Duen. Nay, sir, 'tis I who should listen, and you propose.

Isa. Egad! this isn't so disdainful, neither. I believe I may venture to look. No; I daren't: one glance of those roguish sparklers would fix me again.

Duen. You seem thoughtful, sir: let me persuade you to sit down.

Isa. So, so; she mollifies apace: she's struck with my figure! this attitude has had its effect. Duen. Come, sir, here's a chair.