The Duenna/Act I
ACT I.[edit]
SCENE I.—The Street before DON JEROME'S House.
Enter LOPEZ, with a dark lantern.
Lop. Past three o'clock!—Soh! a notable hour for one of my regular
disposition, to be strolling like a bravo through the streets of
Seville! Well, of all services, to serve a young lover is the
hardest.—Not that I am an enemy to love; but my love and my master's
differ strangely.—Don Ferdinand is much too gallant to eat, drink, or
sleep:—now my love gives me an appetite—then I am fond of dreaming
of my mistress, and I love dearly to toast her.—This cannot be done
without good sleep and good liquor: hence my partiality to a feather-
bed and a bottle. What a pity, now, that I have not further time, for
reflections! but my master expects thee, honest Lopez, to secure his
retreat from Donna Clara's window, as I guess.—[Music without.]
Hey! sure, I heard music! So, so! Who have we here? Oh, Don Antonio,
my master's friend, come from the masquerade, to serenade my young
mistress, Donna Louisa, I suppose: so! we shall have the old gentleman
up presently.—Lest he should miss his son, I had best lose no time in
getting to my post. [Exit.]
Enter DON ANTONIO, with MASQUERADERS and music.
SONG.—Don Ant.
Tell me, my lute, can thy soft strain
So gently speak thy master's pain?
So softly sing, so humbly sigh,
That, though my sleeping love shall know
Who sings—who sighs below,
Her rosy slumbers shall not fly?
Thus, may some vision whisper more
Than ever I dare speak before.
I. Mas. Antonio, your mistress will never wake, while you sing so
dolefully; love, like a cradled infant, is lulled by a sad melody.
Don Ant. I do not wish to disturb her rest.
I. Mas. The reason is, because you know she does not regard you
enough to appear, if you awaked her.
Don Ant. Nay, then, I'll convince you. [Sings.]
The breath of morn bids hence the night,
Unveil those beauteous eyes, my fair;
For till the dawn of love is there,
I feel no day, I own no light.
DONNA LOUISA—replies from a window.
Waking, I heard thy numbers chide,
Waking, the dawn did bless my sight;
'Tis Phoebus sure that woos, I cried,
Who speaks in song, who moves in light.
DON JEROME—from a window.
What vagabonds are these I hear,
Fiddling, fluting, rhyming, ranting,
Piping, scraping, whining, canting?
Fly, scurvy minstrels, fly!
TRIO.
Don. Louisa.
Nay, prithee, father, why so rough?
Don Ant.
An humble lover I.
Don Jer.
How durst you, daughter, lend an ear
To such deceitful stuff?
Quick, from the window fly!
Don. Louisa
Adieu, Antonio!
Don Ant
Must you go?
Don. Louisa. & Don Ant.
We soon, perhaps, may meet again.
For though hard fortune is our foe,
The God of love will fight for us.
Don Jer.
Reach me the blunderbuss.
Don Ant. & Don. Louisa.
The god of love, who knows our pain—
Don Jer.
Hence, or these slugs are through your brain.
[Exeunt severally.]
SCENE II—A Piazza.
Enter DON FERDINAND and LOPEZ.
Lop. Truly, sir, I think that a little sleep once in a week or so—-
Don Ferd. Peace, fool! don't mention sleep to me.
Lop. No, no, sir, I don't mention your lowbred, vulgar, sound sleep;
but I can't help thinking that a gentle slumber, or half an hour's
dozing, if it were only for the novelty of the thing——
Don Ferd. Peace, booby, I say!—Oh, Clara dear, cruel disturber of
my rest!
Lop. [Aside.] And of mine too.
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, to trifle with me at such a juncture as this!—
now to stand on punctilios!—Love me! I don't believe she ever did.
Lop. [Aside.] Nor I either.
Don Ferd. Or is it, that her sex never know their desires for an
hour together?
Lop. [Aside.] Ah, they know them oftener than they'll own them.
Don Ferd. Is there, in the world, so inconsistent a creature as
Clara?
Lop. [Aside.] I could name one.
Don Ferd. Yes; the tame fool who submits to her caprice.
Lop. [Aside.]I thought he couldn't miss it.
Don Ferd. Is she not capricious, teasing, tyrannical, obstinate,
perverse, absurd? ay, a wilderness of faults and follies; her looks
are scorn, and her very smiles—'Sdeath! I wish I hadn't mentioned her
smiles; for she does smile such beaming loveliness, such fascinating
brightness—Oh, death and madness! I shall die if I lose her.
Lop. [Aside.] Oh, those damned smiles have undone all!
AIR—Don Ferd.
Could I her faults remember,
Forgetting every charm,
Soon would impartial reason
The tyrant love disarm:
But when enraged I number
Each failing of her mind,
Love still suggests each beauty,
And sees—while reason's blind.
Lop. Here comes Don Antonio, sir.
Don Ferd. Well, go you home—I shall be there presently.
Lop. Ah, those cursed smiles! [Exit.]
Enter DON ANTONIO.
Don Ferd. Antonio, Lopez tells me he left you chanting before our
door—was my father waked?
Don Ant. Yes, yes; he has a singular affection for music; so I left
him roaring at his barred window, like the print of Bajazet in the
cage. And what brings you out so early?
Don Ferd. I believe I told you, that to-morrow was the day fixed by
Don Pedro and Clara's unnatural step-mother, for her to enter a
convent, in order that her brat might possess her fortune: made
desperate by this, I procured a key to the door, and bribed Clara's
maid to leave it unbolted; at two this morning, I entered unperceived,
and stole to her chamber—I found her waking and weeping.
Don Ant. Happy Ferdinand!
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath! hear the conclusion.—I was rated as the most
confident ruffian, for daring to approach her room at that hour of the
night.
Don Ant. Ay, ay, this was at first.
Don Ferd. No such thing! she would not hear a word from me, but
threatened to raise her mother, if I did not instantly leave her.
Don Ant. Well, but at last?
Don Ferd. At last! why I was forced to leave the house as I came in.
Don Ant. And did you do nothing to offend her?
Don Ferd. Nothing, as I hope to be saved!—I believe, I might snatch
a dozen or two of kisses.
Don Ant. Was that all? well, I think, I never heard of such
assurance!
Don Ferd. Zounds! I tell you I behaved with the utmost respect.
Don Ant. O Lord! I don't mean you, but in her. But, hark ye,
Ferdinand, did you leave your key with them?
Don Ferd. Yes; the maid who saw me out, took it from the door.
Don Ant. Then, my life for it, her mistress elopes after you.
Don Ferd. Ay, to bless my rival, perhaps. I am in a humour to
suspect everybody.—You loved her once, and thought her an angel, as I
do now.
Don Ant. Yes, I loved her, till I found she wouldn't love me, and
then I discovered that she hadn't a good feature in her face.
AIR.
I ne'er could any lustre see
In eyes that would not look on me;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,
But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art?
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.
Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it, grateful, press again.
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so, when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.
Besides, Ferdinand, you have full security in my love for your sister;
help me there, and I can never disturb you with Clara.
Don Ferd. As far as I can, consistently with the honour of our
family, you know I will; but there must be no eloping.
Don Ant. And yet, now, you would carry off Clara?
Don Ferd. Ay, that's a different case!—we never mean that others
should act to our sisters and wives as we do to others'.—But, to-
morrow, Clara is to be forced into a convent.
Don Ant. Well, and am not I so unfortunately circumstanced? To-
morrow, your father forces Louisa to marry Isaac, the Portuguese—but
come with me, and we'll devise something I warrant.
Don Ferd. I must go home.
Don Ant. Well, adieu!
Don Ferd. But, Don Antonio, if you did not love my sister, you have
too much honour and friendship to supplant me with Clara—
AIR—Don Ant.
Friendship is the bond of reason;
But if beauty disapprove,
Heaven dissolves all other treason
In the heart that's true to love.
The faith which to my friend I swore,
As a civil oath I view;
But to the charms which I adore,
'Tis religion to be true. [Exit.]
Don Ferd. There is always a levity in Antonio's manner of replying
to me on this subject that is very alarming.—'Sdeath, if Clara should
love him after all.
SONG.
Though cause for suspicion appears,
Yet proofs of her love, too, are strong;
I'm a wretch if I'm right in my fears,
And unworthy of bliss if I'm wrong.
What heart-breaking torments from jealousy flow,
Ah! none but the jealous—the jealous can know!
When blest with the smiles of my fair,
I know not how much I adore:
Those smiles let another but share,
And I wonder I prized them no more!
Then whence can I hope a relief from my woe,
When the falser she seems, still the fonder I grow? [Exit.]
SCENE III.—A Room in DON JEROME'S House.
Enter DONNA LOUISA and DUENNA.
Don. Louisa. But, my dear Margaret, my charming Duenna, do you think
we shall succeed?
Duen. I tell you again, I have no doubt on't; but it must be
instantly put to the trial. Everything is prepared in your room, and
for the rest we must trust to fortune.
Don. Louisa. 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 to-morrow, once for all, whether she will consent
to marry Isaac Mendoza; if she hesitates, I will make a solemn oath
never to see or speak to her till she returns to her duty.—These
were his words.
Don. Louisa. 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.
Don. Louisa. 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.
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 loved 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 loved 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 must slip out to seal it up, as undelivered. [Exit.]
Enter DON JEROME and DON FERDINAND.
Don 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 suffer no more of
these midnight incantations—these amorous orgies, that steal the
senses in the hearing; as, they say, Egyptian embalmers serve mummies,
extracting the brain through the ears. However, there's an end of your
frolics.—Isaac Mendoza will be here presently, and to-morrow you
shall marry him.
Don. Louisa. Never, while I have life!
Don Ferd. Indeed, sir, I wonder how you can think of such a man for
a son-in-law.
Don Jer. Sir, you are very kind to favour me with your sentiments—
and pray, what is your objection to him?
Don Ferd. He is a Portuguese, in the first place.
Don Jer. No such thing, boy; he has forsworn his country.
Don. Louisa. He is a Jew.
Don Jer. Another mistake: he has been a Christian these six weeks.
Don Ferd. Ay, he left his old religion for an estate, and has not
had time to get a new one.
Don. Louisa. But stands like a dead wall between church and
synagogue, or like the blank leaves between the Old and New Testament.
Don Jer. Anything more?
Don Ferd. But the most remarkable part of his character is his
passion for deceit and tricks of cunning.
Don. Louisa. 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.
Don Ferd. True; like an unskilful gunner, he usually misses his aim,
and is hurt by the recoil of his own piece.
Don Jer. Anything more?
Don. Louisa. To sum up all, he has the worst fault a husband can
have—he's not my choice.
Don 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
sweet-tempered; and for your good fruit, there's nothing like
ingrafting on a crab.
Don. Louisa. I detest him as a lover, and shall ten times more as a
husband.
Don Jer. I don't know that-marriage generally makes a great change—
but, to cut the matter short, will you have him or not?
Don. Louisa. There is nothing else I could disobey you in.
Don Jer. Do you value your father's peace?
Don. Louisa. So much, that I will not fasten on him the regret of
making an only daughter wretched.
Don 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.]
Don 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.
Don Jer. That, doubtless, is a very great recommendation!—I
certainly have not paid sufficient respect to it.
Don Ferd. There is not a man living I would sooner choose for a
brother-in-law.
Don 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.
Don Ferd. Nay, sir, 'tis only my regard for my sister makes me
speak.
Don Jer. Then, pray sir, in future, let your regard for your father
make you hold your tongue.
Don 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.
Don 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 lieve she had lived, and I wish every
widower in Seville could say the same. I shall now go and get the key
of this dressing-room—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.]
Don 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.]
Re-enter DON JEROME with a letter, pulling in DUENNA.
Don Jer. I'm astonished! I'm thunderstruck! here's treachery with a
vengeance! You, Antonio's creature, and chief manager of this plot for
my daughter's eloping!—you, that I placed here as a scarecrow?
Duen. What?
Don 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.
Don 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 writ in every wrinkle of it.—But
you shall quit my house this instant. The tender passions, indeed! go,
thou wanton sibyl, thou amorous woman of Endor, go!
Duen. You base, scurrilous, 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?
Don Jer. I took you, mistress, with your wardrobe on—what have you
pilfered, eh?
Duen. Sir, I must take leave of my mistress; she has valuables of
mine: besides, my cardinal and veil are in her room.
Don Jer. Your veil, forsooth! what, do you dread being gazed at? or
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!
AIR.
If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life,
No peace shall you know, though you've buried your wife!
At twenty she mocks at the duty you taught her—
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
Sighing and whining,
Dying and pining,
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!
Re-enter DONNA LOUISA, dressed as DUENNA, with cardinal and veil,
seeming to cry.
This way, mistress, this way.—What, I warrant a tender parting; so!
tears of turpentine down those deal cheeks.—Ay, 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.]
Re-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 DONNA LOUISA.
Don Jer. Come, mistress, there is your way—the world lies before
you, so troop, thou antiquated 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 but just he should take you himself; go—[Exit DONNA
LOUISA.] So! I am rid of her, thank heaven! and now I shall be able to
keep my oath, and confine my daughter with better security. [Exit].
SCENE V.-The Piazza.
Enter DONNA CLARA and MAID.
Maid. But where, madam, is it you intend to go?
Don. Clara. 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.
Don. Clara. No—he has offended me exceedingly. [Retires].
Enter DONNA LOUISA.
Don. Louisa. So I have succeeded in being turned out of doors—but
how shall I find Antonio? I dare not inquire for him, for fear of
being discovered; I would send to my friend Clara, but then 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?
Don. Clara. No, her notions of filial duty are so severe, she would
certainly betray me.
Don. Louisa. Clara is of a cold temper, and would think this step of
mine highly forward.
Don. Clara. Louisa's respect for her father is so great, she would
not credit the unkindness of mine.
[DONNA LOUISA turns and sees DONNA CLARA and MAID.]
Don. Louisa. Ha! who are those? sure one is Clara—if it be, I'll
trust her. Clara! [Advances.]
Don. Clara. Louisa! and in masquerade too!
Don. Louisa. You will be more surprised when I tell you, that I have
run away from my father.
Don. Clara. Surprised indeed! and I should certainly chide you most
horridly, only that I have just run away from mine.
Don. Louisa. My dear Clara! [Embrace.]
Don. Clara. Dear sister truant! and whither are you going?
Don. Louisa. To find the man I love, to be sure; and, I presume, you
would have no aversion to meet with my brother?
Don. Clara. Indeed I should: he has behaved so ill to me, I don't
believe I shall ever forgive him.
AIR.
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.
Don. Louisa. 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?
Don. Clara. 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.
Don. Louisa. 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.
Don. Clara. Who is he? he's a strange figure.
Don. Louisa. Yes; that sweet creature is the man whom my father has
fixed on for my husband.
Don. Clara. And will you speak to him? are you mad?
Don. Louisa. 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.
Don. Clara. And how do you know him?
Don. Louisa. He arrived but yesterday, and he was shown to me from
the window, as he visited my father.
Don. Clara. Well, I'll begone.
Don. Louisa. Hold, my dear Clara—a thought has struck me: will you
give me leave to borrow your name, as I see occasion?
Don. Clara. 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 left hand side
of the piazza which leads to the church of St. Anthony.
Don. Louisa. Ha! ha! ha! I'll be very particular in my directions
where he may not find you.—[Exeunt DONNA CLARA and MAID.]—So! My
swain, yonder, has, done admiring himself, and draws nearer.
[Retires.]
Enter ISAAC and DON CARLOS.
Isaac. [Looking in a pocket-glass.] I tell you, friend Carlos, I
will please myself in the habit of my chin.
Don Car. But, my dear friend, how can you think to please a lady
with such a face?
Isaac. 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 DONNA LOUISA.]—See now! I'll die if
here is not a little damsel struck with it already.
Don. Louisa. Signor, are you disposed to oblige a lady who greatly
wants your assistance? [Unveils.]
Isaac. Egad, a very pretty black-eyed girl! she has certainly taken
a fancy to me, Carlos. First, ma'am, I must beg the favour of your
name.
Don. Louisa. [Aside.] So! it's well I am provided.—[Aloud.]—My
name, sir, is Donna Clara d'Almanza.
Isaac. What? Don Guzman's daughter? I'faith, I just now heard she
was missing.
Don. Louisa. But sure, sir, you have too much gallantry and honour
to betray me, whose fault is love?
Isaac. So! a passion for me! poor girl! 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.
Don. Louisa. Why so, signor?
Isaac. Because I am positively engaged to another—an't I, Carlos?
Don. Louisa. Nay, but hear me.
Isaac. No, no; what should I hear for? It is impossible for me to
court you in an honourable way; and for anything else, if I were to
comply now, I suppose you have some ungrateful brother, or cousin, who
would want to cut my throat for my civility—so, truly, you had best
go home again.
Don. Louisa. [Aside.] Odious wretch!—[Aloud.]—But, good
signor, it is Antonio d'Ercilla, on whose account I have eloped.
Isaac. How! what! it is not with me, then, that you are in love?
Don. Louisa. No, indeed, it is not.
Isaac. Then you are a forward, impertinent simpleton! and I shall
certainly acquaint your father.
Don. Louisa. Is this your gallantry?
Isaac. Yet hold—Antonio d'Ercilla, did you say? egad, I may make
something of this—Antonio d'Ercilla?
Don. Louisa. Yes; and if ever you wish to prosper in love, you will
bring me to him.
Isaac. 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; hey, Carlos! A
lucky thought, isn't it?
Don Car. Yes, very good—very good!
Isaac. 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?
Don. Louisa. May I rely on you, good signor?
Don. Car. Lady, it is impossible I should deceive you.
AIR.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
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 aged you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.
But when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,
They'll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother's part:
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong;
For friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And brothers in the young.
Isaac. Conduct the lady to my lodgings, Carlos; I must haste to Don
Jerome. Perhaps you know Louisa, ma'am. She's divinely handsome, isn't
she?
Don. Louisa. You must excuse me not joining with you.
Isaac. Why I have heard it on all hands.
Don. Louisa. Her father is uncommonly partial to her; but I believe
you will find she has rather a matronly air.
Isaac. Carlos, this is all envy.—You pretty girls never speak well
of one another.—[To DON CARLOS.] Hark ye, find out Antonio, and
I'll saddle him with this scrape, I warrant. Oh, 'twas the luckiest
thought! Donna Clara, your very obedient. Carlos, to your post.
DUET.
Isaac.
My mistress expects me, and I must go to her,
Or how can I hope for a smile?
Don. Louisa.
Soon may you return a prosperous wooer,
But think what I suffer the while.
Alone, and away from the man whom I love,
In strangers I'm forced to confide.
Isaac.
Dear lady, my friend you may trust, and he'll prove
Your servant, protector, and guide.
AIR.
Don Car.
Gentle maid, ah! why suspect me?
Let me serve thee—then reject me.
Canst thou trust, and I deceive thee?
Art thou sad, and shall I grieve thee?
Gentle maid, ah I why suspect me?
Let me serve thee—then reject me.
TRIO.
Don. Louisa.
Never mayst thou happy be,
If in aught thou'rt false to me.
Isaac.
Never may he happy be,
If in aught he's false to thee.
Don Car.
Never may I happy be,
If in aught I'm false to thee.
Don. Louisa.
Never mayst thou, &c.
Isaac.
Never may he, &c.
Don Car.
Never may I, &c. [Exeunt.]