The Duenna Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Enter Lopez, with a dark Lanthorn.
Past three o'clock! soh! a notable hour for one of my
regular disposition to be strolling like a bravo thro' 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 hee, 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! soh! we shall have the old
gentleman up presently—least he shou'd miss his son, I had best lose
no time in getting to my post.
Enter Antonio, with Masks and Music.
Tell me, my lute, can thy soft strain
So gently speak thy master's pain;
So softly sing, so humbly sigh,
That tho' 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.
—Antonio, your mistress will never wake while you sing so
dolefully; love, like a cradled infant, is lull'd by a sad melody.
—I do not wish to disturb her rest.
—The reason is, because you know she does not regard you enough,
to appear if you waked her.
—Nay, then I'll convince you.
The breadth of morn bids hence the night,
Unveil those beauteous eyes, my fair,
Nor till the dawn of love is there,
I feel no day, I own no light.
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
Fidling, fluting, rhyming, ranting,
Piping, scraping, whining, canting,
Fly, scurvy minstrels, fly.
Nay, pry thee, father, why so rough,
An humble lover I,
How durst you daughter lend an ear
To such deceitful stuff?
Quick from the window fly.
Must you go?
We soon perhaps, may meet again
For tho' hard fortune is our foe,
The god of love will fight for us.
Reach me the Blunderbuss.
Ant. & Lou.
The god of love, who knows our pain,
Hence, or these slugs are thro' your brain.
Enter Ferdinand and
—Truly, sir, I think that a litle sleep once in a week or so.
—Peace fool, don't mention sleep to me.
—No, no, sir, I don't mention your low-bred, 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.
—Peace, booby, I say. O Clara, dear, cruel disturber of my rest.
—And of mine too.
—S'death! to trifle with me at such a juncture as this—now to
stand on punctilios—love me! I don't believe she ever did.
—Nor I either.
—Or is it that her sex never know their desires for an hour
—Ah, they know them oftner than they'll own them.
—Is there in the world so inconstant a creature as Clara?
—I cou'd name one.
—Yes; the tame fool who submits to her caprice.
—I thought he coudn't miss it.
—Is she not capricious, teizing, tyrannical, obstinate, perverse,
absurd, ay, a wilderness of faults and follies, her looks are scorn,
and her very smiles—s'death! I wish I hadn't mention'd her smiles;
for she does smile such beaming loveliness, such fascinating
brightness—O death and madness, I shall die if I lose her.
—O those damn'd smiles have undone all.
Could I her faults remember,
Forgetting ev'ry 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.
—Here comes Don Antonio, sir.
—Well, go you home—I shall be there presently.
—Ah those curst smiles.
—Antonio, Lopez tells me he left you chaunting before our
door—was my father wak'd?
—Yes, yes; he has a singular affection for music, so I left him
roaring at his barr'd window like the print of Bajazet in the cage.
And what brings you out so early?
—I believe I told you that to-morrow was the day fix'd 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 procur'd a key to the door, and brib'd 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.
—S'death, hear the conclusion—I was rated as the most confident
ruffian, for daring to approach her room at that hour of night.
—Ay, ay, this was at first.
—No such thing! she wou'd not hear a word from me, bnt threat'ned
to raise her mother if I did not instantly leave her.
—Well; but at last?—
—At last! why, I was forced to leave the house as I came in.
—And did you do nothing to offend her?
—Nothing, as I hope to be saved—I believe I might snatch a
dozen or two of kisses.
—Was that all? well, I think I never heard of such assurance.
—Zounds! I tell you I behaved with the utmost respect.
—Olord! I dont mean you, but in her—but, hark'y, Ferdinand, did
you leave your key with them?
—Yes; the maid who saw me out took it from the door.
—Then my life for it, her mistress elopes after you.
Ay, to bless my rival perhaps—I am in a humour to suspect every
body—you lov'd her once, and thought her an angel, as I do now.
—Yes, I loved her till I found she wou'dn't love me, and then I
discovered that she hadn't a good feature in her face.
I ne'er could any lustre see
In eyes that wou'd 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
T'll 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.
As far as I can consistently with the honor of our family, you know
I will; but there must be no cloping.
And yet now, you wou'd carry off Clara.
Ay, that's a different case—we never mean that others shou'd act
to our sisters and wives as we do to others—But to-morrow Clara is
to be forc'd into a convent.
Well: and am not I so unfortunately circumstanc'd? To-morrow your
father forces Louisa to marry Isaac, the Portugueze—but come with
me, and we'll devise something, I warrant.
I must go home.
But, Antonio, if you did not love my sister, you have too much
honor and friendship to supplant me with Clara.
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.
There is always a levity in Antonio's manner of replying to me on
this subject, that is very alarming— S'death, if Clara shou'd love
him after all.
Tho' 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 priz'd them no more.
Then whence can I hope a relief from my woe,
When the falser she seems still the fonder I grow.
Scene—A Room in Don Jerome's house.
Enter Louisa and
But my dear Margaret, my charming Duenna, do you think we shall
I tell you again I have no doubt on't; but it must be instantly put
to the trial—Every thing is prepared in your room, and for the rest
we must trust to fortune.
My father's oath was never to see me till I had consented to—
'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.
And on his known obstinate adherence to what he has once said, you
have form'd this plan for my escape— But have you secured my maid in
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.
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.
Thou cans't 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 shew,
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.
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.
Enter Don Jerome and
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 moreof these midnight incantations,
these amorous orgies that steal the senses in the hearing; as they say
Egyptian Embalmers serve mummies, extracting the brain thro' the
ears; however, there's an end of your frolics—Isaac Mendoza will be
here presently, and to-morrow you shall marry him.
Never while I have life.
Indeed, Sir, I wonder how you can think of such a man for a
Sir, you are very kind to favour me with your sentiments—and
pray, what is your objection to him.
He is a Portugueze in the first place.
No such thing, boy, he has forsworn his country.
He is a Jew.
Another mistake: he has been a christian these six weeks.
Ay, he left his old religion for an estate, and has not had time to
get a new one.
But stands like a dead wall between church and synagogue, or like
the blank leaves between the Old and New Testament.
Any thing more?
But the most remarkable part of his character, is his passion for
deceit, and tricks of cunning.
Tho' 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.
True, like an unskilful gunner, he usually misses his aim, and is
hurt by the recoil of his own piece.
Any thing more?
To sum up all, he has the worst fault a husband can have—he's not
But you are his; and choice on one side is sufficient —two lovers
shou'd never meet in marriage—be you sour as you please, he is sweet
temper'd, and for your good fruit, there's nothing like ingrafting on
I detest him as a lover, and shall ten times more as a husband.
I don't know that—marriage generally makes a great change—but
to cut the matter short, will you have him or not?
There is nothing else I could disobey you in.
Do you value your father's peace?
So much, that I will not fasten on him the regret of making an only
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 appartments, I never will stir out without
leaving you under lock and key, and when I'm at home no creature can
approach you but thro' my library—we'll try who can be most
obstinate— out of my sight—There remain till you know your duty.
[Pushes her out.
Surely, Sir, my sister's inclinations shou'd be consulted in a
matter of this kind, and some regard paid to Don Antonio, being my
That, doubtless, is a very great recommendation—I certainly have
not paid sufficient respect to it.
There is not a man living I wou'd sooner chuse for a
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.
Nay, sir, 'tis only my regard for my sister makes me speak.
Then, pray, sir, in future, let your regard for your father make
you hold your tongue.
I have done, sir—I shall only add a wish that you wou'd reflect
what at our age you wou'd have felt, had you been crost in your
affection for the mother of her you are so severe to.
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 cou'd 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.
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 ardor till
she has suffer'd for his sake [Noise.] soh! what bustle is
here! between my father and the Duenna too—I'll e'en get out of the
Enter Don Jerome (with a Letter) putting in
I'm astonished! I'm thunder struck! here's treachery and conspiracy
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
A scare-crow—To prove a decoy duck—what have you to say for
Well, sir, since you have forced that letter from me, and
discover'd my real sentiments, I scorn to renounce 'em—I am
Antonio's friend, and it was my intention that your daughter shou'd
have serv'd you as all such old tyrannaical sots shou'd be
serv'd—Idelight in the tender passions, and would befriend all under
The tender passions! yes, they wou'd become those impenetrable
features—why, thou deceitful hag! I plac'd thee as a guard to the
rich blosoms of my daughter's beauty—I thought that dragon's front
of thine wou'd cry aloof to the sons of gallantry—steel traps and
spring guns seem'd writ 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!
You base, scurrilous, old—but I wont 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 persume.
I took you, mistress, with your wardrobe on— what have you
Sir, I must take leave of my mistress, she has valuables of mine,
besides, my cardinal and veil are in her room.
Your veil for sooth! 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! soh! you quit the house within these five
Here was a precious plot of mischief—! these are the comforts
daughters bring us.
If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life,
No peace shall you know, tho' you've buried your wife,
At twenty she mocks at the duty you taught her,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
Sighing and whinig,
Dying and pining,
O 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.
O what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
Wrangling and jangling,
Flouting and pouting,
O what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
Enter Louisa, dress'd as the
with Cardinal and Veil, seeming to cry.
This way, mistress, this way—what, I warrant, a tender parting
soh! 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.
So speed you well, sagacious Don Jerome! O, 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.
The Court before
Don Jerome's house.
Enter Don Jerome and
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 turn'd away, tell
him I say it is but just he shou'd take you himself, go.
Soh! I am rid of her, thank heaven! and now I shall be able to
keep my oath, and confine my daughter with better security.
Enter Clara, and her Maid.
But where madam, is it you intend to go?
Any where to avoid the selfish violence of my mother-in-law, and
Ferdinand's insolent importunity.
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
No—he has offended me exceedingly.
So, I have succeeded in being turn'd 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 wou'd
Then suppose, ma'am, you were to try if your friend Donna Louisa
would not receive you.
No, her notions of filial duty are so severe, she would certainly
Clara is of a cold temper, and would this step of mine highly
Louisa's respect for her father is so great, she would not credit
the unkindness of mine.
[Louisa turns, and sees
Clara and Maid.
Ha! who are those? sure one is Clara—if it be, I'll trust
Louisa! and in Masquerade too!
You will be more surprized when I tell you that I have run away
from my father.
Surprized indeed! and I should certainly chide you most horridly,
only that I have just run away from mine.
My dear Clara!
Dear sister truant! and whither are you going?
To find the man I love to be sure—And I presume you wou'd have no
aversion to meet with my brother.
Indeed I should—he has behaved so ill to me, I don't believe I
shall ever forgive him.
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 prest my couch in silent sorrow,
My lover caught me to his breast;
He vowed he came to save me
From those who would enslave me!
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.
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?
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.
No; I am determined to find Antonio first, and as I live, here
comes the veryman I will employ to seek him for me.
Who is he? he's a strange figure!
Yes, that sweet creature is the man whom my father has fixed on for
And will you speak to him? are you mad?
He is the fittest man in the world for my purpose —for,tho' 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.
And how do you know him?
He arrived but yesterday, and he was shewn me from the window as he
visited my father.
Well, I'll be gone.
Hold, my dear Clara—a thought has struck me, will you give me
leave to borrow your name as I see occasion.
It will but disgrace you—but use it as you please —I dare not
stay (going) but, Louisa, if you shou'd 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.
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.
Enter Isaac and
Carlos, Isaac with a
Isaac. (Looking in the glass.)
I tell you, friend Carlos, I will please myself in the habit of my
But, my dear friend, how can you think to please a lady with such a
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.
Signor, are you disposed to oblige a lady who greatly wants your
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.
Soh! it's well I am provided.
(Aside) My name, sir, is Donna
What!—Don Guzman's daughter? I'faith, I just now heard she was
But, sure sir, you have too much gallantry and honor to betray me,
whose fault is love.
So! a passion for me! poor girl! why, ma'am, as for betraying you,
I don't see how I cou'd get any thing by it; so you may rely on my
honour; but as for your love, I am sorry your case is so desperate.
Why so Signor?
Because I'm positively engaged to another—an't I Carlos?
Nay, but hear me.
No, no; what should I hear 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, who would
want to cut my throat for my civility—so, truly you had best go
(aside.) But, good Signor, it is Antonio
d'Ercilla, on whose account I have eloped.
How! what! it is not with me then, that you are in love?
No indeed it is not.
Then you are a forward, impertinent simpleton! and I shall
certainly acquaint your father.
Is this your gallantry.
Yet hold—Antonio d'Ercilla did you say? egad, I may make
something of this—Antonio d'Ercilla?
Yes, and if ever you hope to prosper in love, you will bring me to
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?—
Yes, very good—very good—
Ah! this little brain is never at a loss—cunning Isaac! cunning
rogue! Donna Clara, will you trust yourself a while to my friend's
May I rely on you good Signor?
Lady, it is impossible I should deceive you.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I near could injure you;
For tho' your tongue no promise claimed,
Your charms wou'd 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 passions 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 lovers in the young.
I'll conduct the lady to my lodgings, Carlos; I must haste to Don
Jerome—perhaps you know Louisa, ma'am. She is divinely
You must excuse me not joining with you.
Why, I have heard it on all hands.
Her father is uncommonly partial to her, but I believe you will
find she has rather a matronly air.
Carlos, this is all envy—you pretty girls never speak well of one
another—hark'y, 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.
My mistress expects me, and I must go to her,
Or how can I hope for a smile?
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 conside,
Dear lady, my friend you may trust, and he'll prove,
Your servant, protector, and guide.
Gentle maid, ah! why suspect me?
Let me serve thee—then reject me,
Can'st thou trust, and I deceive thee?
Art thou sad, and shall I grieve thee?
Gentle maid, Ah! why suspect me?
Let me serve thee—then reject me.
END OF ACT I.
Never may'st thou happy be,
If in ought thou'rt false to me.
Never may he happy be,
If in ought he's false to thee.
Never may I happy be,
If in ought I'm false to thee.
Never may'st thou &c.
Never may he &c.
Never may I &c.
—A Library in Jerome's House.
Enter Don Jerome and
Ha, ha, ha! run away from her father! has she given him the slip!
Ha, ha, ha! poor Don Guzman!
Ay; 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 trap, isn't it? a nice stroke of cunning, heh!
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!
Nay, they have the cunning of serpents, that's the truth on't.
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—heh little Isaac!
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 a little too well.
Ay, but such a driveller as Don Guzman.
And such a dupe as Antonio.
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,
Sir, you'll introduce—
No—I have sworn a solomn oath not to see or speak to her till she
renounces her disobedience; win her to that, and she gains a father
and a husband at once.
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.
Give Isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast;
But health and good humour to make her his toast,
If strait, I dont 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 tho' in her face I no dimples shou'd 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,
Be they light, grey or black, their lustre and hue,
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 may'nt have a beard.
You will change your note, my friend, when you've seen Louisa.
O Don Jerome, the honour of your alliance—
Aye, but her beauty will affect you—she is, tho' 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 shews her to be my
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.
Then the roses on those cheeks are shaded with a sort of velvet
down, that gives a delicacy to the glow of health.
Her skin pure dimity, yet more fair, being spangled here and there
with a golden freckle.
Charming pretty rogue! pray how is the tone of her voice?
Remarkably pleasing—but if you cou'd 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
Well, egad, I'll pluck up resolution and meet her frowns
Aye! woo her briskly—win her and give me a proof of your address,
my little Solomon.
But hold—I expect my friend Carlos to call on me here—If he
comes will you send him to me?
I will—Lauretta, come—she'll shew you to the room—what! do
you droop? here's a mournful face to make love with.
Louisa's Dressing Room.
Enter Maid and
Sir, my mistress will wait on you presently
[Goes to the door.
When she's at leisure—don't hurry her.
I wish I had ever practised a love-scene—I doubt I shall make a
poor figure—I cou'd'nt 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 (drest as
Now dar'n'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.
Sir, I attend your pleasure.
Ho! the ice is broke, and a pretty civil beginning too! hem!
madam—Miss—I'm all attention.
Nay, Sir, 'tis I who shou'd listen, and you propose.
Egad, this is'nt so disdainful neither—I believe I may venture to
look—No—I dar'n't—one glance of those roguish sparklers wou'd
fix me again.
You seem thoughtful, Sir—let me persuade you to sit down.
So, so; she molifies apace—she's struck with my figure, this
attitude has had its effect.
Come, Sir, here's a chair.
Madam, the greatness of your goodness overpowers me—that a lady
so lovely shou'd deign to turn her beauteous eyes on me so.
[She takes his hand, he
turns and sees her.
You seem surpriz'd at my condescension.
Why, yes, madam, I am a little surprized at it; zounds! this can
never be Louisa—she's as old as my mother.
But former prepossessions give way to my father's commands.
Her father! Yes, 'tis she then—Lord, lord; how blind some parents
Truely, the little damsel was right—she has rather a matronly air
indeed! ah! 'tis well my affections are fixed on her fortune and not
Signor, wont you sit?
Pardon me, madam, I have scarce recover'd my astonishment at—your
condescension, madam—she has the devil's own dimples to be sure.
Nay, you shall not stand
[he sits] I do not wonder, Sir,
that you are surpriz'd at my affability—I own Signor, that I was
vastly preposessed against you, and being teiz'd by my father, I did
give some encouragement to Antonio, But then, Sir, you were described
to me as a quite different person.
Aye, and so you was to me upon my soul, madam.
But when I saw you, I was never more struck in my life.
That was just my case too, madam; I was struck all on a heap for my
Well, Sir, I see our misapprehension has been mutual—you expected
to find me haughty and averse, and I was taught to believe you a
little black snub-nosed fellow, without person, manners or address.
Egad, I wish she had answer'd her picture as well.
But, Sir, your air is noble—something so liberal in your
carriage, with so penetrating an eye, and so bewitching a smile.
Egad, now I look at her again, I dont think she is so ugly.
So little like a jew, and so much like a gentleman.
Well, certainly there is something pleasing in the tone of her
You will pardon this breach of decorum in praising you thus, but my
joy at being so agreeably deceiv'd has given me such a flow of
O dear lady, may I thank those dear lips for this goodness
[kisses her] why, she has a pretty sort of velvet down, that's the
O Sir, you have the most insinuating manner, but indeed you shou'd
get rid of that odious beard—one might as well kiss an hedge-hog.
Yes ma'am—the razor wou'd'nt be amiss for either of us
Could you favour me with a song?
Willingly, Sir, tho' I am rather hoarse— Ahem!
[Begins to sing.
Very like a Virginia nightingale—ma'am, I perceive you're
hoarse—I beg you will not distress—
O not in the least distressed;—now, Sir.
When a tender maid
Is first essayed,
By some admiring swain.
How her blushes rise,
If she meets his eyes,
While he unfolds his pain;
If he takes her hand, she trembles quite,
Touch her lips, and she swoons outright,
While a pit a pat, &c.
Her heart avows her fright.
But in time appear,
Fewer signs of fear,
Tho' youth she boldly views,
If her hand he grasps,
Or her bosoms clasps,
No mantling blush ensues.
Then to church well pleas'd the lovers move,
While her smiles her contentment prove,
And a pit a pat, &c.
Her heart avows her love.
Charming, ma'am! Enchanting! and truely your notes put me in mind
of one that's very dear to me, a lady indeed, whom you greatly
How! is there then another so dear to you?
O, no, ma'am, you mistake; it was my mother I meant.
Come, Sir, I see you are amazed and confounded at my condescension
and know not what to say.
It is very true indeed, ma'am—but it is a judgment, I look on it
as a judgment on me for delaying to urge the time when you'll permit
me to compleat my happiness, by acquainting Don Jerome with your
Sir, I must frankly own to you that I can never be your's with my
Good lack! how so?
When my father in his passion swore he would never see me again
'till I acquiesced in his will—I also made a vow that I would never
take a husband from his hand— nothing shall make me break that
oath—but if you have spirit and contrivance enough to carry me off
without his knowledge, I'm yours.
Nay, Sir, if you hesitate—
I'faith no bad whim this—if I take her at her word, I shall
secure her fortune, and avoid making any settlement in return; thus I
shall not only cheat the lover but the father too, Oh! cunning rogue,
Isaac! Ay, ay, let this little brain alone—Egad, I'll take her in
Well, Sir, what's your determination?
Madam, I was dumb only from rapture—I applaud your spirit, and
joyfully close with your proposal; for which, thus let me on this
lilly hand express my gratitude.
Well, Sir, you must get my father's consent to walk with me in the
garden. But by no means inform him of my kindness to you.
No, to be sure—that wou'd spoil all—But trust me when tricking
is the word—let me alone for a piece of cunning; this very day you
shall be out of his power.
Well, I leave the management of it all to you, I perceive plain,
Sir, that you are not one that can be easily outwitted.
Egad, you're right, madam—you're right I'faith.
Here's a gentleman at the door, who begs permission to speak with
A friend of mine ma'am, and a trusty friend— Let him come in.
He is one to be depended on, ma'am.
Enter Carlos. So, coz.
I have left Donna Clara at your lodgings; but can no where find
Well I will search him out myself—Carlos, you rogue, I thrive, I
Where is your mistress?
There, you booby, there she stands.
Why she's dam'd ugly.
[Stops his mouth.
What is your friend saying, Signor?
O ma'am, he is expressing his raptures at such charms as he never
saw before, hey Carlos?
Aye, such as I never saw before, indeed.
You are a very obliging Gentleman—well, Signor Isaac, I believe
we had better part for the present. Remember our plan.
O, ma'am, it is written in my heart, fixed as the image of those
divine beauties—adieu, Idol of my soul— yet, once more permit
Sweet, courteous Sir, adieu.
Your slave eternally—come Carlos, say something civil at taking
I'faith, Isaac, she is the hardest woman to compliment I ever saw,
however, I'll try something I had studied for the occasion.
Ah! sure a pair was never seen,
So justly form'd to meet by nature.
The youth excelling so in mien,
The maid in ev'ry grace of feature.
O how happy are such lovers,
When kindred beauties each discovers.
For surely she
Was made for thee,
And thou to bless this lovely creature.
So mild your looks, your children thence,
Will early learn the task of duty,
The boys with all their father's sense,
The girls with all their mother's beauty.
Oh! how happy to inherit,
At once such graces and such spirit.
Thus while you live
May fortune give,
Each blessing equal to you merit.
[Exeunt Isaac, Carlos,
Object to Antonio? I have said it! his poverty, can you acquit him
Sir, I own he is not over rich—but he is of as antient and
honourable a family as any in the kingdom.
Yes, I know the beggars are a very ancient family in most kingdoms;
but never in great repute, boy.
Antonio, Sir, has many amiable qualities.
But he is poor, can you clear him of that, I say—is he not a gay,
dissipated rake, who has squander'd his patrimony!
Sir, he inherited but little; and that his generosity, more than
his profuseness, has stript him of—but he has never sullied his
honor, which, with his title, has outlived his means.
Psha! you talk like a blockhead! nobility without an estate is as
ridiculous as gold-lace on a frize-coat.
This language, Sir, wou'd better become a Dutch or English trader,
than a Spaniard.
Yes; and those Dutch and English traders, as you call them, are the
wiser people. Why, booby, in England they were formerly as nice as to
birth and family as we are—but they have long discover'd what a
wonderful purifier gold is—and now no one there regards pedigree in
any thing but a horse—O, here comes Isaac! I hope he has prosper'd
in his suit.
Doubtless, that agreeable figure of his must have help'd his suit
[Ferd. walks aside.
Well, my friend, have you soften'd her?
O yes; I have soften'd her.
What, does she come to?
Why, truely, she was kinder than I expected to find her.
And the dear little Angel was civil, hey!
Yes, the pretty little Angel was very civil.
I'm transported to hear it, well, and you were astonished at her
I was astonished indeed! pray, how old is miss?
How old? let me see—eight and twelve—she is twenty.
Aye, to a month.
Then, upon my soul, she is the oldest looking girl of her age in
Do you think so? but I believe you will not see a prettier girl.
Here and there one.
Louisa has the family face.
Yes, egad, I shou'd have taken it for a family face, and one that
has been in the family some time too.
She has her father's eyes.
'Truely I shou'd have guess'd them to have been so—If she had her
mother's spectacles I believe she would not see the worse.
Her aunt Ursula's nose, and her grandmother's forehead.
Ay, faith, and her grandmother's chin to a hair.
Well, if she was but as dutiful as she's handsome —and harky,
friend Isaac, she is none of your made up beauties—her charms are of
the lasting kind.
I'faith, so they shou'd—for if she be but twenty now, she may
double her age, before her years will overtake her face.
Why, zounds, master Isaac, you are not sneering, are you?
Why, now seriously, Don Jerome, do you think your daughter
By this light, she's as handsome a girl as any in Seville.
Then, by these eyes, I think her as plain a woman as ever I beheld.
By St. Iago you must be blind.
No, no; 'tis you are partial.
How! have I neither sense nor taste? If a fair skin, fine eyes,
teeth of ivory, with a lovely bloom, and a delicate shape—if these,
with a heavenly voice, and a world of grace, are not charms, I know
not what you call beautiful.
Good lack, with what eyes a father sees! As I have life, she is the
very reverse of all this; as for the dimity skin you told me of, I
swear 'tis a thorough nankeen as ever I saw; for her eyes, their
utmost merit is in not squinting —for her teeth, where there is one
of ivory, its neighbour is pure ebony, black and white alternately,
just like the keys of an harpsicord. Then as to her singing, and
heavenly voice—by this hand, she has a shrill crack'd pipe, that
sounds for all the world like a child's trumpet.
Why, you little Hebrew scoundrel, do you mean to insult me? out of
my house, I say.
Dear Sir, what's the matter?
Why, this Israelite here, has the impudence to say your sister's
He must be either blind or insolent.
So, I find they are all in a story. Egad, I believe I have gone too
Sure, Sir, there must be some mistake—It can't be my sister whom
he has seen.
S'death! you are as great a fool as he, what mistake can there be?
did not I lock up Louisa, and hav'n't I the key in my own pocket? And
didn't her maid shew him into the dressing room? and yet you talk of a
mistake, no, the Portugueze meant to insult me—and, but that this
roof protects him, old as I am, this sword shou'd do me justice.
I must get off as well as I can—her fortune is not the less
Believe me, good Sir, I ne'er meant to offend,
My mistress I love, and I value my friend:
To win her, and wed her, is still my request,
For better, for worse, and I swear I don't jest.
Zounds! you'd best not provoke me, my rage is so high.
Hold him fast, I beseech you, his rage is so high,
Good Sir, you're too hot and this place I must fly.
You're a knave and a sot, and this place you'd best fly.
Don Jerome, come now, let us lay aside all joking and be serious.
Ha, ha, ha! I'll be hang'd if you hav'n't taken my abuse of your
You meant it so, did not you?
O mercy, no! a joke—just to try how angry it wou'd make you.
Was that all I'faith! I did'n't know you had been such a wag; ha,
ha, ha! By St. Iago, you made me very angry tho', well, and you do
think Louisa handsome?
Handsome! Venus de Medicis was a sybil to her.
Give me your hand, you little jocose rogue— Egad, I thought we
had been all off.
So! I was in hopes this would have been a quarrel; but I find the
Jew is too cunning.
Aye, this gust of passion has made me dry— I am seldom rufiled;
order some wine in the next room— let us drink the poor girl's
health—poor Louisa! ugly, heh! Ha, ha, ha! 'Twas a very good joke
And a very true one for all that.
And, Ferdinand, I insist upon your drinking success to my friend.
Sir, I will drink success to my friend with all my heart.
Come, little Solomon, if any sparks of anger had remain'd, this
would be the only way to quench them.
A bumper of good liquor,
Will end a contest quicker,
Than justice, judge or vicar.
So fill a cheerful glass,
And let good humour pass.
But if more deep the quarrel,
Why, sooner drain the barrel,
Than be the hateful fellow,
That's crabbed when he is mellow.
A bumper, &c.
Was ever truant daughter so whimsically circumstanced as I am! I
have sent my intended husband to look after my lover—the man of my
father's choice is gone to bring me the man of my own, but how
dispiriting is this interval of expectation?
What bard, O time discover,
With wings first made thee move;
Ah! sure he was some lover,
Who ne'er had left his love.
For who that once did prove,
The pangs which absence brings,
Tho' but one day,
He were away,
Could picture thee with wings.
So, friend, is Antonio found?
I could not meet with him, lady; but I doubt not my friend Isaac
will be here with him presently.
O shame! you have used no diligence—Is this your courtesy to a
lady who has trusted herself to your protection?
Indeed, madam, I have not been remiss.
Well, well; but if either of you had known how each moment of delay
weighs upon the heart of her who loves, and waits the object of her
love, O, ye wou'd not then have trifled thus.
Alas! I know it well.
Were you ever in love then?
I was, lady: but while I have life will never be again.
Was your mistress so cruel?
If she had always been so, I shou'd have been happier.
O had my love ne'er smil'd on me,
I ne'er had known such anguish;
But think how false, how cruel she,
To bid me cease to languish.
To bid me hope her hand to gain,
Breathe on a flame half perish'd,
And then with cold and fix'd disdain,
To kill the hope she cherish'd.
Not worse his fate, who on a wreck,
That drove as winds did blow it,
Silent had left the shatter'd deck,
To find a grave below it.
Then land was cried—no more resign'd,
He glow'd with joy to hear it,
Not worse his fate, his woe to find,
The wreck must sink e'er near it.
As I live, here is your friend coming with Antonio—I'll retire
for a moment to surprize him.
Enter Isaac and
Indeed, my good friend, you must be mistaken. Clara D'Almanza in
love with me, and employ you to bring me to meet her! It is
That you shall see in an instant—Carlos, where is the lady?
(Carlos points to the doors) In the next room is she?
Nay, if that lady is really here, she certainly wants me to conduct
her to a dear friend of mine, who has long been her lover.
Psha! I tell you 'tis no such thing—you are the man she wants,
and nobody but you. Here's, ado to persuade you to take a pretty girl
that's dying for you.
But I have no affection for this lady.
And you have for Louisa, hey? but take my word for it, Antonio, you
have no chance there—so you may as well secure the good that offers
itself to you.
And could you reconcile it to your conscience, to supplant your
Pish! Conscience has no more to do with gallantry than it has with
politicks—why, you are no honest fellow, if love can't make a rogue
of you—so come,—do go in and speak to her at last.
Well, I have no objection to that.
Isaac. [opens the door]
There—there she is—yonder by the window—get in, do
him in, and half shuts the door) now, Carlos, now I shall hamper
him I warrant— stay—I'll peep how they go on—egad, he looks
confoundedly posed—now she's coaxing him—see, Carlos, he begins
to come to—aye, aye, he'll soon forget his conscience.
Look! now they are both laughing.
Aye! so they are—yes, yes, they are laughing at that dear friend
he talked of—aye poor devil, they have outwitted him.
Now he's kissing her hand.
Yes, yes, faith, they're agreed—he's caught, he's entangled—my
dear Carlos, we have brought it about. O, this little cunning head!
I'm a Machiavel, a very Machieval.
I hear somebody enquiring for you—I'll see who it is.
Enter Antonio and
Well, my good friend, this lady has so entirely convinc'd me of the
certainty of your success at Don Jerome's, that I now resign my
You never did a wiser thing, believe me—and as for deceiving your
friend, that's nothing at all—tricking is all fair in love, isn't
Certainly, Sir, and I am particularly glad to find you are of that
O lud, yes, ma'am—let any one outwit me that can, I say—but
here let me join your hands—there you lucky rogue, I wish you
happily married from the bottom of my soul.
And I am sure, if you wish it, no one else shou'd prevent it.
Now, Antonio, we are rivals no more, so let us be friends, will
With all my heart, Isaac.
It is not every man, let me tell you, that wou'd have taken such
pains, or been so generous to a rival.
No, faith, I don't believe there's another beside yourself in all
Well, but you resign all pretensions to the other lady?
That I do most sincerely.
I doubt you have a little hankering there still.
None in the least, upon my soul.
I mean after her fortune?
No, believe me. You are heartily welcome to every thing she has.
Well, I'faith, you have the best of the bargain as to beauty,
twenty to one—now I'll tell you a secret— I am to carry off Louisa
this very evening.
Yes, she has sworn not to take a husband from her father's
hand—so, I've persuaded him to trust her to walk with me in the
garden, and then we shall give him the slip.
And is Don Jerome to know nothing of this?
O lud no: there lies the jest! Don't you see that, by this step, I
over reach him, I shall be intitled to the girl's fortune without
settling a ducat on her, ha, ha, ha! I'm a cunning dog, a'n't I? A sly
little villain, heh?
Ha, ha, ha! you are indeed!
Roguish you'll say—but keen hey?—devilish keen!
So you are indeed—keen—very keen.
And what a laugh we shall have at Don Jerome's, when the truth
comes out, hey?
Yes, I'll answer for't, we shall have a good laugh when the truth
comes out, ha, ha, ha!
Here are the dancers come to practice the fandango you intended to
have honor'd Donna Louisa with.
O, I sha'n't want them, but as I must pay them, I'll see a caper
for my money—will you excuse me?
Here's my friend, whom you may command for any services, Madam,
your most obedient—Antonio, I wish you all happiness. Othe easy
blockhead! what a tool I have made of him?—This was a master-piece.
Carlos, will you be my guard again, and convey me to the Convent of
Why, Louisa, why shou'd you go there?
I have my reasons, and you must not be seen to go with me, I shall
write from thence to my father, perhaps, when he finds what he has
driven me to, he may relent.
I have no hope from him—O Louisa, in these arms should be your
Be patient but for a little while—my father cannot force me from
thence. But let me see you there before evening, and I will explain
I shall obey.
Come friend—Antonio, Carlos has been a lover himself.
Then he knows the value of his trust.
You shall not find me unfaithful.
End of Act II.
Soft pity never leaves the gentle breast,
Where love has been received a welcome guest,
As wand'ring saints poor huts have sacred made,
He hallows ev'ry heart he once has sway'd;
And when his presence we no longer share,
Still leaves compassion as a relic there.
, and Antonio.
Enter Jerome, and Servant.
Why, I never was so amazed in my life! Louisa gone off with Isaac
Mendoza! what, steal away with the very man whom I wanted her to
marry—elope with her own husband as it were—it is impossible.
Her maid says, Sir, they had your leave to walk in the garden while
you was abroad: The door by the shrubbery was found open, and they
have not been heard of since.
Well, it is the most unaccountable affair! s'death, there is
certainly some insernal mystery in it, I can't comprehend.
Enter 2d Servant, with a Letter.
Here is a letter, Sir, from Signor Isaac.
So, so, this will explain—ay, "Isaac Mendoza," let me see.
(Reads.) "Dearest Sir, you must, doubtless, be much surprized at
my flight with your daughter"— Yes, faith and well I may. "I had the
happiness to gain her heart at our first interview"—The devil you
had! "But she having unfortunately made a vow not to receive a
husband from your hands, I was obliged to comply with her whim" So,
so! "We shall shortly throw ourselves at your feet, and I hope you
will have a blessing ready for one who will then be
"Your son-in-law, Isaac Mendoza."
A whim, heigh? Why, the devil's in the girl, I think—This morning
she wou'd die sooner than have him, and before evening she runs away
with him. Well, well, my will's accomplished!—let the motive be what
it will—and the Portugueze, sure, will never deny to fulfill the
rest of the article.
Enter Servant with another letter.
Sir, here's a man below who says he brought this from my young
lady, Donna Louisa.
How! yes, it is my daughter's hand indeed! lord, there was no
occasion for them both to write; well, let's see what she says: (reads) "My dearest father, how shall I intreat your pardon for
the rash step I have taken, how confess the motive?" Pish! hasn't
Isaac just told me the motive—one would think they weren't together,
when they wrote. "If I have a spirit too resentful of ill usage, I
have also a heart as easily affected by kindness" —So, so, here the
whole matter comes out, her resentment for Antonio's ill usage, has
made her sensible of Isaac's kindness—yes, yes, it is all plain
enough—well "I am not married yet, tho' with a man I am convinced
adores me"—Yes, yes, I dare say Isaac is very fond of her—"but I
shall anxiously expect your answer, in which, should I be so fortunate
as to receive your consent, you will make compleatly happy,
"Your ever affectionate daughter, Louisa."
My consent to be sure she shall have it; egad, I was never better
plesaed—I have fulfilled my resolution—I knew I should—O there's
nothing like obstinacy—Lewis?
Let the man who brought the last letter wait, and get me a pen and
ink below. I am impatient to set poor Louisa's heart at rest, holloa!
See that there be a noble supper provided in the Saloon
to-night—serve up my best wines, and let me have music, d'ye hear?
And order all my doors to be thrown open— admit all guests with
masks or without masks—I'faith, we'll have a night of it—And I'll
let 'em see how merry an old man can be.
O the days when I was young,
When I laugh't in fortune's spight,
Talk'd of love the whole day long,
And with nectar crown'd the night.
Then it was old father care,
Little reck'd I of thy frown,
Half thy malice youth could bear,
And the rest a bumper drown.
Truth they say lies in a well,
Why I vow I ne'er could see,
Let the water-drinkers tell,
There it always lay for me.
For when sparkling wine went round,
Never saw I falsehood's mask,
But still honest truth I found,
In the bottom of each flask.
True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay;
Few the locks that now I own,
And the few I have, are grey.
Yet, old Jerome, thou may'st boast,
While thy spirits do not tire,
Still beneath thy age's frost;
Glows a spark of youthful fire.
—The New Piazza.
Enter Ferdinand, and
What, cou'd you gather no tidings of her? Nor guess where she was
gone? O Clara! Clara!
In truth, Sir, I could not—that she was run away from her father,
was in every body's mouth, —and that Don Guzman was in pursuit of
her, was also a very common report—where she was gone, or what was
become of her, no one could take upon 'em to say.
S'death and fury, you blockhead, she cant be out of Seville.
So I said to myself, Sir! S'death and fury, you blockhead, says I,
she can't be out of Seville—then some said, she had hang'd herself
for love, and others have it, Don Antonio had carried her off.
'Tis false, scoundrel! no one said that.
Then I misunderstood 'em, Sir.
Go, fool, get home, and never let me see you again, till you bring
me news of her.
O! how my fondness for this ungrateful girl, has hurt my
Ah, cruel maid, how hast thou changed
The temper of my mind?
My heart by thee from mirth estrang'd
Becomes, like thee, unkind.
By fortune favour'd, clear in fame
I once ambitious was;
And friends I had, that fann'd the flame,
And gave my youth applause.
But now my weakness all abuse,
Yet vain their taunts on me;
Friends, fortune, fame itself I'd lose;
To gain one smile from thee.
Yet, only thou shouldst not despise
My folly, or my woe;
If I am mad in others eyes,
'Tis thou hast made me so.
But days like these, with doubting curst
I will not long endure;
Am I despised, I know the worst,
And also know my cure.
If false, her vows she dare renounce,
She instant ends my pain,
For, Oh, that heart must break at once;
Which cannot hate again.
So, I have her safe—and have only to find a priest to marry us,
Antonio now may marry Clara, or not, if he pleases.
What? what was that you said of Clara?
O Ferdinand! my brother-in-law that shall be, who thought of
But what of Clara?
I'faith, you shall hear.—This morning as I was coming down, I met
a pretty damsel, who told me her name was Clara d'Almanza, and begg'd
She said she had eloped from her father, Don Guzman, but that love
for a young gentleman in Seville, was the cause.
O heavens! did she confess it?
O yes, she confess'd at once—but then, says she, my lover is not
inform'd of my flight, nor suspects my intention.
Dear creature! no more I did indeed! O, I am the happiest
Why, then she intreated me to find him out for her, and bring him
Good heavens, how lucky! well, come along, lets lose no time,
Zooks! where are we to go?
Why, did any thing more pass?
Any thing more!—yes, the end on't was, that I was moved with her
speeches, and complied with her desires.
Well, and where is she?
Where is she? why, dont I tell you I complied with her request, and
left her safe in the arms of her lover.
S'death! you trifle with me—I have never seen her.
You! O lud, no! How the devil shou'd you? 'Twas Antonio she wanted,
and with Antonio I left her.
Hell and madness
(aside) what Antonio d'Ercilla?
Aye, aye, the very man; and the best part of it was, he was shy of
taking her at first—He talk'd a good deal about honor and
conscience, and deceiving some dear friend; but, lord, we soon over
O yes, presently—such deceit, says he—Pish! says the lady,
tricking is all fair in love—but then, my friend, says he—Psha!
damn your friend, says I—so, poor wretch, he has no chance—no,
no—he may hang himself as soon as he pleases.
I must go, or I shall betray myself.
But stay, Ferdinand, you han't heard the best of the joke.
Curse on your joke.
Goodlack! what's the matter now? I thought to have diverted you.
Be rack'd, tortur'd, damn'd—
Why, sure you're not the poor devil of a lover are you? I'faith, as
sure as can be, he is—this is a better joke than t'other, ha, ha,
What do you laugh, you vile, mischievous varlet
but that you're beneath my anger, I'd tear your heart out.
[Throws him from him.
O mercy! here's usage for a brother-in-law!
But, harky, rascal! tell me directly where these false friends are
gone, or by my soul (draws.)
For heavens sake, now, my dear Brother-in-law don't be in a
rage—I'll recollect as well as I can.
Be quick then!
I will, I will—but people's memories differ— some have a
treacherous memory—now mine is a cowardly memory—it takes to its
heels at sight of a drawn sword, it does I'faith—and I could as soon
fight as recollect.
Zounds, tell me the truth, and I won't hurt you.
No, no; I know you won't, my dear brother-in-law —but that ill
looking thing there.
What, then, you won't tell me?
Yes, yes, I will—I'll tell you all upon my soul, but why need you
listen sword in hand.
Why there (puts up) now.
Why then, I believe they are gone to—that is my friend, Carlos,
told me he had left Donna Clara—fear Ferdinand keep your hands
off—at the Convent of St. Catherine.
Yes; and that Antonio was to come to her there.
Is this the truth?
It is indeed; and all I know, as I hope for life.
Well, coward, take your life—'tis that false, dishonourable
Antonio, who shall feel my vengeance.
Ay, ay, kill him—cut his throat and welcome.
But for Clara—infamy on her—she is not worth my resentment.
No more she is, my dear brother-in-law, I'faith I would not be
angry about her—she is not worth it indeed.
'Tis false—she is worth the enmity of princes.
True, true; so she is, and I pity you exceedingly for having lost
S'death, you rascal! how durst you talk of pitying me.
O dear brother-in-law, I beg pardon—I don't pity you in the
least, upon my soul.
Get hence, fool, and provoke me no further— Nothing but your
insignificance saves you.
I'faith, then my insignificance is the best friend I have—I'm
going, dear Ferdinand—What a curst, hot-headed bully it is!
The Garden of the Convent.
Enter Louisa and
And you really wish my brother may not find you out.
Why else, have I conceal'd myself under this disguise?
Why, perhaps, because the dress becomes you, for you certainly
don't intend to be a nun for life.
If, indeed, Ferdinand had not offended me so, last night.
Come, come, it was his fear of losing you, made him so rash.
Well, you may think me cruel—but I swear if he were here this
instant, I believe I shou'd forgive him.
By him we love offended,
How soon our anger flies,
One day apart, 'tis ended,
Behold him and it dies,
Last night, your roving brother,
Enrag'd I bade depart,
And sure his rude presumption,
Deserv'd to lose my heart.
Yet, were he now before me,
In spite of injured pride,
I fear my eyes wou'd pardon,
Before my tongue cou'd chide.
With truth, the bold deceiver,
To me thus oft has said,
"In vain wou'd Clara slight me,
"In vain wou'd she upbraid;
"No Scorn those lips discover,
"Where dimples laugh the while,
No frowns appear resentful,
Where Heaven has stampt a smile.
I protest Clara, I shall begin to think you are seriously resolved
to enter on your probation.
And, seriously, I very much doubt whether the character of a nun
wou'd not become me best.
Why, to be sure, the character of a nun is a very becoming one—at
a masquerade—but no pretty woman in her senses ever thought of
taking the veil for above a night.
Yonder I see your Antonio is returned—I shall only interrupt you;
ah, Louisa, with what happy eagerness you turn to look for him!
Well, my Louisa, any news since I left you?
None—The messenger is not returned from my father.
Well, I confess, I do not perceive what we are to expect from him.
I shall be easier however, in having made the trial, I do not doubt
your sincerity, Antonio: but there is a chilling air round poverty
that often kills affection, that was not nurs'd in it—If we would
make love our household god, we had best secure him a comfortable
[Enter Maid, with a
My father's answer I suppose.
My dearest Louisa, you may be assured that it contains nothing but
threats and reproaches.
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 to sup with your affectionate father".
You jest, Louisa.
Louisa. [Gives him the Letter]
'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.
Shall we not then return and thank my father?
But first let the priest put it out of his power to recall his
word.—I'll fly to procure one.
Nay; if you part with me again, perhaps you may lose me.
Come then—there is a friar of a neighbouring convent 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
I'm afraid not, Antonio—for in religion, as in friendship, they
who profess most are ever the least sincere.
So, yonder they go, as happy as a mutual and confess'd 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 cou'd he gain admission—by
potent gold I suppose, as Antonio did—how eager and disturbed he
seems—he shall not know me as yet. [Lets down her veil.]
Yes, those were certainly they—my information was right.
Clara. (Stops him)
Pray, Signor, what is your business here.
No matter—no matter—Oh, they stop—[looks out] yes, that
is the perfidious Clara indeed.
So, a jealous error—I'm glad to see him so mov'd.
Her disguise can't conceal her—No, no, I know hr too well.
Wonderful discernment! but Signor—
Be quiet, good nun, don't teize me—by heavens she leans upon his
arm, hangs fondly on it! O woman! woman!
But, Signor, who is it you want?
Not you, not you, so, prythee don't teize me. Yet pray
stay—gentle nun, was it not Donna Clara d'Almanza just parted from
Clara d'Almanza, Signor, is not yet out of the garden.
Aye, aye, I knew I was right—and pray, is not that gentleman now
at the porch with her, Antonio d'Ercilla?
It is indeed, Signor.
So, so, now but one question more—can you inform me for what
purpose they have gone away?
They are gone to be married, I believe.
Very well—enough—now if I don't marr their wedding.
I 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 surprize when undeceived? When
he's thro' the porch I'll follow him, and, perhaps, Louisa shall not
singly be a bride.
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.
SCENE.—A Court before the Priory.
Enter Isaac, crossing the Stage.
What, my friend Isaac:
What, Antonio! wish me joy! I have Louisa safe.
Have you? I wish you joy with all my soul.
Yes, I am come here to procure a priest to marry us.
So, then we are both on the same errand, I am come to look for
Hah! I am glad on't—but I'faith he must tack me first, my love is
So is mine—I left her in the porch.
Aye, but I am in haste to get back to Don Jerome.
And so am I too.
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
oblig'd to me for all this.
—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;
And shine as he goes round.
Brother Francis, toss the bottle about, and give me your toast.
Have we drank the abbess of St. Ursuline?
Yes, yes; she was the last.
Then I'll give you the blue-ey'd nun of St. Catherine's.
With all my heart
(drinks). Pray brother, Augustine, were
there any benefactions left in my absence?
Don Juan Corduba has left an hundred ducats to remember him in our
Has he! let them be paid to our wine merchant, and we'll remember
him in our cups, which will do just as well. Any thing more?
Yes; Baptista, the rich miser, who died last week, has bequeath'd
us a thousand Pistoles, and the silver lamp he used in his own
chamber, to burn before the the image of St. Anthony.
'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 left in the dark, tho' he was see who's there.
[A knocking, Francis
goes to the door, and opens it.
Here's one without in pressing haste to speak with father Paul.
[Paul comes from behind a curtain with a glass of
wine, and in his hand a piece of cake.]
Here! how durst you, fellow, thus abruptly break in upon our
I thought they were finished.
No they were not—were they brother Francis?
Not by a bottle each.
But neither you or 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
We ask no more than nature craves.
'Tis false, ye have more appetites than hairs, and your flush'd,
sleek, and pampered appearance is the disgrace of our order—out
on't—if you are hungry, can't you be content with the wholesome
roots of the earth, and if you are dry, isn't there the crystal spring (drinks)? Put this away
(gives a glass) and shew me where
I'm wanted. (Porter drains the glass—Paul going, turns)—so,
you wou'd have drank it, if there had been any left. Ah, glutton!
—The Court before the Priory.
Enter Isaac and
A plaguy while coming this same father Paul— He's detain'd at
vespers I suppose, poor fellow.
No, here he comes. Good father Paul,
(Enter Paul) I crave
Yes good father Paul, we are come to beg a favour.
What is it pray?
To marry us, good father Paul; and in truth, thou do'st look the
very priest of Hymen.
In short I may be called so; for I deal in repentance and
No, no, thou seem'st an officer of Hymen, because thy presence
speaks content and good humour.
Alas! my appearance is deceitful. Bloated I am, indeed, for fasting
is a windy recreation, and it hath swoln me like a bladder.
But thou hast a good fresh colour in thy face father, rosy I'faith.
Ye, I have blush'd for mankind, till the hue of of my shame is as
fixed as their vices.
And I have labour'd too—but to what purpose, they continue to sin
under my very nose.
Efecks, father, I shou'd have guess'd as much, for your nose seems
to be put to the blush more than any other part of your face.
Go, you're a wag.
But to the purpose, father—will you officiate for us?
To join young people thus clandestinely is not safe, and indeed, I
have in my heart many weighty reasons against it.
And I have in my hand many weighty reasons for it—Isaac, hav'n't
you an argument or two in our favour about you?
Yes, yes; here is a most unanswerable purse.
For shame, you make me angry; you forget that I am a Jacobin, and
when importunate people have forced their trash—aye, into this
pocket here—or into this—why, then the sin was theirs (they put
money into his pockets) fie! now, how you distress me?—I wou'd
return it, but that I must touch it that way, and so wrong my oath.
Now then, come with us.
Aye, now give us your title to joy and rapture.
Well, when your hour of repentance comes, don't blame me.
No bad caution to my friend Isaac
(aside). Well, well,
father, do you do your part and I'll abide the consequence.
Aye, and so will I
(they are going.)
Enter Louisa, (running.)
O, Antonio, Ferdinand is at the porch and enquiring for us.
Who? Don Ferdinand! he's not enquiring for me I hope.
Fear not, my love, I'll soon pacify him.
Egad, you won't—Antonio, take my advice and run away; this
Ferdinand is the most unmerciful dog! and has the cursedest long
sword! and upon my soul he comes on purpose to cut your throat.
Never fear, never fear.
Well, you may stay if you will—but I'll get some one to marry me,
for by St. Iago, he shall never marry me again, while I am master of a
pair of heels.
Enter Ferdinand and
So, Sir, I have met with you at last.
Base treacherous man! whence can a false, deceitful soul like
your's borrow confidence to look so steadily on the man you've
Ferdinand, you are too warm—'tis true you find me on the point of
wedding one I love beyond my life, but no argument of mine prevail'd
on her to elope— I scorn deceit as much as you—by heav'n, I knew
not she had left her father's till I saw her.
What a mean excuse! you have wrong'd your friend then, for one,
whose wanton forwardness anticipated your treachery—of this indeed,
your Jew pander inform'd me; but let your conduct be consistent, and
since you have dar'd to do a wrong, follow me, and shew you have
spirit to avow it.
Antonio, I perceive his mistake—leave him to me.
Friend, you are rude to interrupt the union of two willing hearts.
No, meddling priest, the hand he seeks is mine.
Enter Clara, behind.
If so, I'll proceed no further—lady, did you ever promise this
youth your hand? [To Louisa, who shakes her head.]
Clara, I thank you for your silence—I would not have heard your
tongue avow such falsity—be't your punishment to remember I have not
reproached you—Antonio, you are protected now, but we shall meet. [Going, Clara holds one arm and Louisa the other.]
Turn thee round I pray thee,
Calm awhile thy rage,
I must help to stay thee,
And thy wrath assuage.
Could'st thou not discover
One so dear to thee?
Can'st thou be a lover,
And thus fly from me?
How's this! my sister! Clara too—I'm confounded.
'Tis even so, good brother.
How! what impiety! Did the man want to marry his own sister?
And arn't you asham'd of yourself not to know your own sister?
To drive away your own mistress—
Don't you see how jealousy blinds people?
Aye, and will you ever be jealous again?
Never—never—you, sister, I know will forgive me—but now,
Clara, shall I presume—
No, no, just now you told me not to tieze you "Who do you want,
good Signor?" "not you, not you." O you blind wretch! but swear never
to be jealous again, and I'll forgive you.
There, that will do—you'll keep the oath just as well.
[gives her hand.
But, brother, here is one, to whom some apology is due.
Antonio, I am asham'd to think—
Not a word of excuse, Ferdinand—I have not been in love myself,
without learning that a lover's anger shou'd never be resented—but
come—let us retire with this good father, and we'll explain to you
the cause of this error.
GLEE and CHORUS.
Oft' does Hymen smile to hear,
Wordy vows of feign'd regard;
Well he knows when they're sincere.
Never slow to give reward:
For his glory is to prove,
Kind to those who wed for love.
—and Last. A Grand Saloon.
Enter Don Jerome, Servants and
Be sure now let every thing be in the best order—let all my
Servants have on their merriest faces— but tell 'em to get as little
drunk as possible till after supper. So, Lopez, where's your master?
sha'n't we have him at supper.
Indeed, I believe not, Sir—he's mad, I doubt; I'm sure he has
frighted me from him.
Aye, aye, he's after some wench, I suppose, a young rake! Well,
well, we'll be merry without him.
Enter a Servant.
Sir, here is Signor Isaac.
So, my dear son-in-law—there, take my blessing and forgiveness,
but where's my daughter? where's Louisa?
She's without impatient for a blessing, but almost afraid to enter.
O fly and bring her in.
Poor girl, I long to see her pretty face.
Come, my charmer! my trembling Angel!
Enter Isaac and
Duenna, Don Jerome
runs to meet them (she kneels.)
Come to my arms, my—(starts back) why who the devil have
Nay, Don Jerome, you promised her forgiveness; see how the dear
Droops indeed! Why, gad take me, this is old Margaret—but where's
my daughter, where's Louisa?
Why here, before your eyes—nay, don't be abashed, my sweet wife!
Wife with a vengeance! Why, zounds you have not married the Duenna!
O dear papa! you'll not disown me sure!
Papa! dear papa! Why, zounds, your impudence is as great as your
Rise, my charmer, go throw your snowy arms about his neck, and
convince him you are—
O Sir, forgive me!
What's the matter, Sir?
Why here, this damn'd Jew, has brought an old Harridan to strangle
Lord, it is his own daughter, and he is so hard hearted he won't
Enter Antonio and
Louisa, they kneel.
Zounds and fury what's here now? who sent for you, Sir, and who the
devil are you?
This lady's husband, Sir.
Aye, that he is I'll be sworn; for I left 'em with the Priest, and
was to have given her away.
Aye; that's my honest friend, Antonio; and that's the little girl I
told you I had hamper'd him with.
Why, you are either drunk or mad—this is my daughter.
No, no; 'tis you are both drunk and mad, I think—here's your
Hark'ee, old iniquity, will you explain all this or not?
Come then, Don Jerome, I will—tho' our habits might inform you
all—look on your daughter, there and on me.
What's this I hear?
The truth is, that in your passion this morning, you made a small
mistake, for you turn'd your daughter out of doors; and lock'd up your
O lud! O lud! here's a pretty fellow! to turn his daughter out of
doors instead of an old Duenna.
And, O lud! O lud! here's a pretty fellow to marry an old Duenna
instead of my daughter—but how came the rest about?
I have only to add, that I remain'd in your daughter's place, and
had the good fortune to engage the affections of my sweet husband
Her husband! why, you old witch, do you think I'll be your husband
now! this is a trick, a cheat, and you ought all to be asham'd of
Hark'ee, Isaac, do you dare to complain of tricking—Don Jerome, I
give you my word, this cunning Portugueze has brought all this upon
himself, by endeavouring to over-reach you by getting your daughter's
fortune, without making any settlement in return.
'Tis so indeed, Sir, and we can prove it to you.
Why, gad take me, it must be so, or he cou'd never have put up with
such a face as Margaret's—so, little Solomon, I wish you joy of your
wife with all my soul.
Isaac, tricking is all fair in love—let you alone for the plot.
A cunning dog ar'n't you? A fly little villain, heh!
Roguish, perhaps; but keen, devilish keen.
Yes, yes, his aunt always call'd him little Solomon.
Why, the plague of Egypt upon you all—but do you think I'll
submit to such an Imposition!
Isaac, one serious word—you'd better be content as you are, for
believe me, you will find, that in the opinion of the world, there is
not a fairer subject for contempt and ridicule, than a knave become
the dupe of his own art.
I don't care—I'll not endure this—Don Jerome 'tis you have done
this—you wou'd be so curst positive about the beauty of her you
lock'd up, and all the time, I told you she was as old as my mother,
and as ugly as the Devil.
Why you little insignificant reptile.
That's right—attack him, Margaret.
Dares such a thing as you pretend to talk of beauty—a walking
rouleau—a body that seems to owe all its consequence to the
dropsy—a pair of eyes like two dead beetles in a wad of brown dough.
A beard like an artichoke, with dry shrivell'd jaws that wou'd
disgrace the mummy of a monkey.
Well done, Margaret.
But you shall know that I have a brother who wears a sword, and if
you don't do me justice—
Fire seize your brother, and you too—I'll fly to Jerusalem to
Fly where you will, I'll follow you.
Throw your snowy arms about him, Margaret.
Exeunt Isaac and Duenna.
But Louisa, are you really married to this modest gentleman?
Sir, in obedience to your commands I gave him my hand within this
Yes, Sir, here is your consent under your own hand.
How? wou'd you rob me of my child by a trick, a false pretence, and
do you think to get her fortune by the same means? why s'life, you are
as great a rogue as Isaac.
No, Don Jerome, tho' I have profited by this paper in gaining your
daughter's hand, I scorn to obtain her fortune by deceit, there Sir, [Gives a letter] now give her your blessing for a dower, and all
the little I possess, shall be settled on her in return. Had you
wedded her to a prince, he could do no more.
Why, gad take me, but you are a very extraordinary fellow, but have
you the impudence to suppose no one can do a generous action but
yourself? Here Louisa, tell this proud fool of yours, that he's the
only man I know that wou'd renounce your fortune; and by my soul, he's
the only man in Spain that's worthy of it—there, bless you both,
I'm an obstinate old fellow when I am in the wrong; but you shall now
find me as steady in the right.
Enter Ferdinand and
Another wonder still! why, Sirrah! Ferdinand, you have not stole a
nun, have you?
She is a nun in nothing but her habit, Sir—look nearer, and you
will perceive 'tis Clara d'Almanza, Don Guzman's daughter, and with
pardon for stealing a wedding, she is also my wife.
Gadsbud, and a great fortune—Ferdinand, you are a prudent young
rogue and I forgive you; and ifecks you are a pretty little damsel.
Give your father-in-law a kiss, you smiling rogue.
There old gentleman, and now mind you behave well to us.
Efecks, those lips ha'n't been chill'd by kissing beads—Egad, I
believe I shall grow the best humour'd fellow in Spain—Lewis,
Sancho, Carlos, d'ye hear, are all my doors thrown open? Our childrens
weddings are the only hollidays our age can boast, and then we drain
with pleasure, the little stock of spirits time has left us. [Music
within] But see, here come our friends and neighbours.
And I'faith we'll make a night on't, with wine and dance, and
catches—then old and young shall join us.
Come now for jest and smiling,
Both old and young beguiling,
Let us laugh and play, so blyth and gay,
Till we banish care away.
Thus crown'd with dance and song,
The hours shall glide along,
With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees,
Can never fail to please.
Each bride with blushes glowing,
Our wine as rosy flowing,
Let us laugh and play, so blythe and gay,
Till we banish care away,—
Then, health's to every friend,
The night's repast shall end,
With a heart at ease, merry, merry, glees,
Can never fail to please.
Nor while we are so joyous,
Shall anxious fear annoy us,
Let us laugh and play, so blythe and gay,
Till we banish care away.
For generous guests like these,
Accept the wish to please,
So we'll laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Your smiles drive care away.