Don Ped. Despatch the rest.-[Aside.] Is't possible after all he should be innocent!

Don John. I must confess the resolution taken made me tremble for you. How to prevent it now and for ever was my next care. I immediately ordered Lopez to go lie at Don Felix's and to open me the door when all the family were in bed. He did as I directed him. I entered, and in the dark found my way to Leonora's apartment; I found the door open, at which I was surprised. I thought I heard some stirring in her chamber, and in an instant heard her cry to aid. At this I drew, and rushed into the room; which Guzman alarmed at, cried out to her assistance. His ready impudence, I must confess, at first quite struck me speechless; but in a moment I regained my tongue, and loud proclaimed the traitor.

Don Ped. Is't possible!

Don John. Yet more: your arrival hindering me at that time from taking vengeance for your wrong, I at this instant expect him here, to punish him (with heaven's righteous aid) for daring to attempt my ruin with the man, whose friendship I prefer to all the blessings Heaven and earth dispense. And now, Don Pedro, I have told you this, if still you have a mind to take my life, I shall defend it with the self-same warmth I intended to expose it in your service. [Draws. Don Ped. [Aside.] If I did not know he was in love with Leonora, I could be easily surprised with what he has told me. But-but yet 'tis certain he has destroyed the proofs against him; and if I only hold him guilty as a lover, why must Don Guzman pass for innocent? Good Gods, I am again returning to my doubts!

Don John. [Aside.] I have at last reduced him to a balance,

But one lie more toss'd in will turn the scale.[Aloud.] One obligation more, my friend, you

owe me;

I thought to have let it pass, but it shall out.
Know then,

I loved, like you, the beauteous Leonora ;
But from the moment I observed how deep
Her dart had pierced you,

I tore my passion from my bleeding heart,
And sacrificed my happiness to yours.
Now I've no more to plead; if still you think
Your vengeance is my due, come pay it me.

Don Ped. Rather ten thousand poniards strike O Alvarada ! [me dead.

Can you forgive a wild distracted friend?
Gods! whither was my jealous frenzy leading me?
Can you forget this barbarous injury?

Don John. I can no more. But for the future, think me what I am, a faithful and a zealous friend. Retire, and leave me here. In a few moments I hope to bring you farther proofs on't. Guzman I instantly expect; leave me to do you justice on him.

Don Ped. That must not be. My revenge can ne'er be satisfied by any other hand but this. Don John. Then let that do't. You'll in a moment have an opportunity.

Don Ped. You mistake, he won't be here.
Don John. How so?

Don Ped. He has not had your challenge. His sister intercepted it, and desired I'd come to prevent the quarrel.

Don John. What then is to be done?

Don Ped. I'll go and find him out immediately. Don John. Very well: or hold-[Aside.] I must hinder 'em from talking, gossiping may discover me.-[Aloud.] Yes: let's go and find him or, let me see-ay-'twill do better. Don Ped. What?

Don John. Why-that the punishment should suit the crime.

Don Ped. Explain.

Don John. Attack him by his own laws of war. 'Twas in the night he would have had your honour, and in the night you ought to have his life.

Don Ped. His treason cannot take the guilt from mine.

Don John. There is no guilt in fair retaliation. When 'tis a point of honour founds the quarrel, the laws of swordmen must be kept, 'tis true: but if a thief glides in to seize my treasure, methinks I may return the favour on my dagger's point, as well as with my sword of ceremony six times as long.

Don Ped. Yet still the nobler method I would choose; it better satisfies the vengeance of a man of honour.

Don John. I own it, were you sure you should succeed but the events of combats are uncertain.

Your enemy may 'scape you you perhaps may only wound him; you may be parted. Believe me, Pedro, the injury's too great for a punctilio

satisfaction.

Don Ped. Well, guide me as you please, so you direct me quickly to my vengeance. What do you propose?

Don John. That which is easy, as 'tis just to execute. The wall he passed, to attempt your wife, let us get over to prevent his doing so any more. 'Twill let us in to a private apartment by his garden, where every evening in his amorous solitudes he spends some time alone, and where I guess his late fair scheme was drawn. The deed done, we can retreat the way we entered; let me be your pilot, 'tis now e'en dark, and the most proper time.

Don Ped. Lead on; I'll follow you. Don John. [Aside.] How many villanies I'm forced to act, to keep one secret! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.-DON GUZMAN's Apartment. DON GUZMAN discovered sitting. Don Guz. With what rigour does this unfaithful woman treat me ! Is't possible it can be she, who appeared to love me with so much tenderness? How little stress is to be laid upon a woman's heart? Sure they're not worth those anxious cares they give.-[Rising.] Then burst my chains, and give me room to search for nobler pleasures. I feel my heart begin to mutiny for liberty; there is a spirit in it yet, will struggle hard for freedom: but solitude's the worst of seconds.-Ho, Sancho! Galindo! who waits there? Bring some lights. Where are you?

Enter GALINDO, rubbing his eyes, and drunk. Gal. I can't well tell. Do you want me, sir? Don Guz. Yes, sir, I want you. Why am I left in the dark? what were you doing?

Gul. Doing, sir! I was doing-what one does when one sleeps, sir.

Don Guz. Have you no light without? Gal. [Yawning.] Light !-No, sir,-I have no light. I am used to hardship. I can sleep in the dark. 戛

Don Guz. You have been drinking, you rascal, you are drunk!

Gal. I have been drinking, sir, 'tis true, but I am not drunk. Every man that is drunk, has been drinking; confessed. But every man that has been drinking, is not drunk. Confess that too. Don Guz. Who is't has put you in this condition, you sot?

Gal. A very honest fellow: Madam Leonora's coachman, nobody else. I have been making a little debauch with Madam Leonora's coachman; yesz

Don Guz. How came you to drink with him, beast?

Gal. Only par complaisance, sir. The coachman was to be drunk upon madam's wedding; and I being a friend, was desired to take part.

Don Guz. And so, you villain, you can make yourself merry with what renders me miserable!

Gal. No, sir, no; 'twas the coachman was merry: I drank with tears in my eyes. The remembrance of your misfortunes, made me so sad, so sad, that every cup I swallowed, was like a cup of poison to

Don Guz. Absence, the old remedy for love, must e'en be mine; to stay and brave the danger were presumption: Farewell, Valencia, then! and farewell, Leonora ! And if thou canst, my heart, redeem thy liberty; secure it by a farewell eternal to her sex.

Re-enter GALINDO, with a candle. Gal. Here's light, sir.-[He falls and puts it out.] So! Don Guz. Well done! You sottish rascal, come no more in my sight.

Exit into an adjoining chamber. Gal. These boards are so uneven!-You shall see now I shall neither find the candle-nor the candlestick; it shan't be for want of searching however.-[Rising, and feeling about for the candie.] O ho, have I got you! Enough, I'll look for your companion to-morrow.

Enter DON PEDRO and DON JOHN. Don Ped. Where are we now?

Don John. We are in the apartment I told you of-softly-I hear something stir.-Ten to one but 'tis he.

Gal. Don't I hear somewhat?-No.-When one has wine in one's head, one has such a bustle in one's ears.

Don Ped. [To DON JOHN.] Who is that talking to himself?

Don John. 'Tis his servant, I know his voice, keep still.

Gal. Well; since my master has banished me his sight, I'll redeem by my obedience what I have lost by my debauch. I'll go sleep twelve hours in some melancholy hole where the devil shan't find me. Yes. [Exit. Don John. He's gone; but hush, I hear somebody coming.

Don Guz. Ho, there will nobody bring light? [Bhind the scene.

Don Ped. 'Tis Guzman.
Don John. 'Tis so, prepare.

Don Ped. Shall I own my weakness? I feel an inward check; I wish this could be done some other way.

Don John. Distraction all! is this a time to balance? Think on the injury he would have done! you, 'twill fortify your arm, and guide your dagger to his heart.

Don Ped: Enough, I'll hesitate no more; be satisfied, hark! he's coming.

Re-enter DoN GUZMAN, he crosses the stage. Don Guz. I think these rogues are resolved to leave me in the dark all night. [Exit. Don John. Now's your time; follow him, and strike home.

Don Ped. To his heart, if my dagger will reach it. [Exit. Don John. [Aside.] If one be killed, I'm satisfied; 'tis no great matter which. Re-enter DON GUZMan, Don Pedro following him, with his dagger ready to strike.

Don Ped. I have done the deed: there's nothing left, but to make our escape. Don John, where I are you? let's be gone, I hear the servants coming. [Knocking at the door. Lop. [Without.] Open there quickly, open the door!

Don Ped. That's Lopez, we shall be discovered. But 'tis no great matter, the crime will justify the execution. But where's Don John?-Don John, where are you?

[Knocking at the door. Lop. [Without.] Open the door there, quickly! -Madam, I saw 'em both pass the wall, the devil's in't if any good comes on't.

Leo. [Without.] I am frightened out of my senses-Ho, Isabella!

Don Ped. 'Tis Leonora.--She's welcome. With her own eyes let her see her Guzman dead.

WHAT say you, sirs, d'ye think my lady'll 'scape? "Tis devilish hard to stand a favourite's rape. Should Guzman, like Don John, break in upon her,

For all her virtue, heaven have mercy on her!
Her strength, I doubt, 's in his irresolution,
There's wondrous charms in vigorous execution.
Indeed you men are fools, you won't believe
What dreadful things we women can forgive:
I know but one we never do pass by.
And that you plague us with eternally;

When in your courtly fears to disoblige,
You won't attack the town which you besiege:
Your guns are light, and planted out of reach :
D'ye think with billets-doux to make a breach?
'Tis small-shot all, and not a stone will fly :
Walls fall by cannon, and by firing nigh:
In sluggish dull blockades you keep the field,
And starve us ere we can with honour yield.
In short-

We can't receive those terms you gently tender,
But storm, and we can answer our surrender.

YE gods! what crime had my poor father done,
That you should make a poet of his son?
Or is't for some great services of his,
Y'are pleased to compliment his boy-with this?
[Showing his crown of laurel.
The honour, I must needs confess, is great,
If, with his crown, you'd tell him where to eat.
'Tis well.-But I have more complaints-look here!
[Showing his ragged coat.
Hark ye :-D'ye think this suit good winter wear?
In a cold morning, whu-at a lord's gate,
How you have let the porter let me wait!
You'll say, perhaps, you knew I'd get no harm,
You'd given me fire enough to keep me warm.
Ah!-

A world of blessings to that fire we owe;
Without it I'd ne'er made this princely show.
I have a brother too, now in my sight,

[Looking behind the scenes. A busy man amongst us here to-night:

Your fire has made him play a thousand pranks,
For which, no doubt, you've had his daily thanks;
He has thank'd you, first, for all his decent plays,
Where he so nick'd it, when he writ for praise.
Next for his meddling with some folks in black,
And bringing-souse !-a priest upon his back;
For building houses here to oblige the peers,
And fetching all their house about his ears;
For a new play, he'as now thought fit to write,
To soothe the town-which they-will damn to-
night.

These benefits are such, no man can doubt
But he'll go on, and set your fancy out,
Till for reward of all his noble deeds,
At last like other sprightly folks he speeds:
Has this great recompense fix'd on his brow
At famed Parnassus; has your leave to bow
And walk about the streets-equipp'd—as I am

now.

t'other: for, not to wrong 'em, they give very good

rates.

Mrs. Ami. Oh, for that, let us do 'em justice, neighbour; they never make two words upon the price, all they haggle about is the day of pay- |

ment.

Mrs. Clog. There's all the dispute, as you say. Mrs. Aml. But that's a wicked one. For my part, neighbour, I'm just tired off my legs with trotting after 'em ; besides, it eats out all our profit. Would you believe it, Mrs. Cloggit, I have worn out four pair of pattens with following my old lady Youthful, for one set of false teeth, and but three pots of paint.

Mrs. Clog. Look you there now!

Mrs. Aml. If they would but once let me get enough by 'em, to keep a coach to carry me adunning after 'em, there would be some conscience in it.

Mrs. Clog. Ay, that were something. But now you talk of conscience, Mrs. Amlet, how do you speed amongst your city customers?

Mrs. Aml. My city customers! now by my truth, neighbour, between the city and the court (with reverence be it spoken) there's not a-to choose. My ladies in the city, in times past, were as full of gold as they were of religion, and as punctual in their payments as they were in their prayers; but since they have set their minds upon quality, adieu one, adieu t'other, their money and their consciences are gone, Heaven knows where. There is not a goldsmith's wife to be found in town, but's as hard-hearted as an ancient judge, and as poor as a towering duchess.

Mrs. Clog. But what the murrain have they to do with quality! why don't their husbands make 'em mind their shops?

Mrs. Aml. Their husbands! their husbands, sayest thou, woman? Alack! alack! they mind their husbands, neighbour, no more than they do a

sermon.

Mrs. Clog. Good lack a-day, that women born of sober parents, should be prone to follow ill examples ! But now we talk of quality, when did you hear of your son Richard, Mrs. Amlet? My daughter Flipp says she met him t'other day in a laced coat, with three fine ladies, his footman at his heels, and as gay as a bridegroom. Mrs. Aml. Is it possible? Well, neighbour, all's well that ends well; but Dick will be hanged.

Mrs. Clog. That were pity.

Ah the rogue!

Mrs. Aml. Pity indeed; for he's a hopeful young man to look on; but he leads a life-Well -where he has it, Heaven knows; but they say, he pays his club with the best of 'em. I have seen him but once these three months, neighbour, and then the varlet wanted money; but I bid him march, and march he did to some purpose; for in less than an hour back comes my gentleman into the house, walks to and fro in the room, with his wig over his shoulder, his hat on one side, whistling a minuet, and tossing a purse of gold from one hand to t'other, with no more respect (Heaven bless us!) than if it had been an orange. Sirrah, says I, where have you got that? He answers me never a word, but sets his arms akimbo, cocks his saucy hat in my face, turns about upon his ungracious heel, as much as to say kiss-and I've never set eye on him since.

Mrs. Clog. Look you there now; to see what the youth of this age are come to!

Mrs. Aml. See what they will come to, neighbour. Heaven shield, I say; but Dick's upon the gallop. Well, I must bid you good-morrow; I'm going where I doubt I shall meet but a sorry wel

come.

Mrs. Clog. To get in some old debt, I'll warrant you?

Mrs. Aml. Neither better nor worse.
Mrs. Clog. From a lady of quality?

Mrs. Aml. No, she's but a scrivener's wife; but she lives as well and pays as ill as the stateliest countess of 'em all. [Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.-The Street before GRIPE's House.

Enter BRASS.

Brass. Well, surely through the world's wide extent, there never appeared so impudent a fellow as my school-fellow Dick.-Pass himself upon the town for a gentleman, drop into all the best company with an easy air, as if his natural element were in the sphere of quality; when the rogue had a kettle-drum to his father, who was hanged for robbing a church, and has a pedlar to his mother, -who carries her shop under her arm!-But here he comes.