ACT II.

+Scene.+--_The city of Seville._

_Enter +Don Antonio+ and +Sancho+, in riding-clothes._

+San.+ Sir, we are arriv'd in very good time.

+Don A.+ I did not think it would have been so soon By an hour at least; but lovers ride apace. Why smile you, Sancho?

+San.+ Faith, at the novelty of your amours, To fall in love with one you hardly saw, And marry one you never saw: 'tis pretty; But we poor mortals have another method.

+Don A.+ Y' are very pleasant, friend; but is not this The market-place, behind the Jacobins?

+San.+ Yes, sir.

+Don A.+ 'Tis here I charg'd Ernesto to expect me.

+San.+ Since you are here, sir, earlier than you thought, Why might you not go shift you at the post-house, And be return'd before Ernesto come? Howe'er, 'tis better that he wait for you, Than you for him, in the open street.

+Don A.+ 'Tis well thought on; come, let's go then. [_Exeunt._

_Enter +Don Octavio+ and +Diego+._

+Don O.+ Come, Diego, 'tis now time to quit our dens, And to begin our chase.

+Diego.+ Of what, sir? bats or owls, now the sun's set? Call you this making of love? why, methinks, 'Tis more like making of war: marching all night In arms, as if we design'd to beat up The enemy's quarters.

+Don O.+ Why, would not you venture as much for Flora?

+Diego.+ No, in good faith, sir; I shall venture enough, If e'er I marry her: I'll run no hazard By my good-will beforehand.

+Don O.+ That's from your fear, not prudence, Diego.

+Diego.+ Sir, you may call it what you please; but I Dare boldly say, there lives not in the world A more valiant man than I, whilst danger Keeps its distance; but when saucily It presses on, then, I confess, 'tis true, I have a certain tenderness for life, Which checks my ardour, and inclines my prudence Timely to withdraw.

+Don O.+ Your style is wondrous civil to yourself; How you soften that harsh word call'd cowardice. But the danger is not always evident, When you are pleas'd, my friend, to run away.

+Diego.+ It may be so, sir--not to vulgar eyes; But I have such a piercing sight, that I Discover perils out of others' ken; Which they, not seeing soon enough to shun, Are forc'd t' encounter; and then their struggling Is by th' unwary world taken for courage.

+Don O.+ Who's truly valiant will be always so.

+Diego.+ Who's wisely valiant will avoid the foe.

+Don O.+ You have more light, Diego, I see, than heat; But I'll allow your wit and honesty To come to composition for your want Of courage.

+Diego.+ I have courage enough for the profession To which my parents did design me.

+Don O.+ Why, what was that?

+Diego.+ An advocate. I could have acted choler In my client's sight, and, when his back was turn'd, Have hugg'd the lawyer of the adverse party; And, if I mistake not, they sell their breath Much dearer than you soldiers do your blood. 'Tis true, you get honour, a fine light food For delicate complexions; but I have Known some captains of plain stomachs starve upon't.

+Don O.+ The varlet's i' the right. [_Aside._] How came't about You were not of this thriving trade?

+Diego.+ After I had spent seven years at Salamanca, My father, a rich merchant of this city, Was utterly undone by that damn'd Englishman, With whom we fright our children.

+Don O.+ Who, Captain Drako? Was he a pirate?

+Diego.+ He had been so on this side of the line.

+Don O.+ 'Tis strange that war and peace should have degrees Of latitude: one would have thought they should Have been the same all o'er the world. But what's this To my amours? I trifle away my time. Was ever lover's fate so rude as mine? Condemn'd to darkness, forc'd to hide my head, As well as love; and, to spite me the more, Fortune has contradictions reconcil'd: I am at once a pris'ner and exil'd.

_Enter +Don Antonio+ and +Sancho+._

+Don A.+ Methinks Ernesto should not tarry long, If not already come. Sancho, how call you The street there just before us, where you see Yon gentleman with his cloak o'er his face? I have lost all my measures of this town.

+Sancho.+ I am as much to seek as you, sir.

+Don A.+ Let us go to him, Sancho, and inquire: He has a notable good mien: I ne'er Saw an air more like [to] Octavio's.

+Don O.+ Unless my eyes do very much deceive me, That's Don Antonio; if it be he, Diego, There is no danger in his knowing us: He was my comrade when I first bore arms. [_+Don Octavio+ lets fall his cloak from before his face._ Tis he.

+Don A.+ You injure me, Octavio, to be so long A-knowing one who's so entirely yours. [_They embrace._

+Don O.+ Your presence in this place, noble Antonio, Was so unexpected, I hardly durst Believe my eyes. When came you to this town?

+Don A.+ I am just now arrived.

+Don O.+ I joy to see you here, but should have thought It likelier to have heard of you at court, Pursuing there the recompenses due To your great merit.

+Don A.+ That is no place for men of morality: I have been taught, Octavio, to deserve, But not to seek, reward, that does profane The dignity of virtue. If princes, For their own interests, will not advance Deserving subjects, they must raise themselves By a brave contempt of fortune.

+Don O.+ Rig'rous virtue! which makes us to deserve, Yet suffer the neglect of those we serve.

+Don A.+ Virtue to interest has no regard: Nor is it virtue, if w' expect reward.

+Don A.+ If for their service kings our virtues press, Is no pay due to valour and success?

+Don O.+ When we gave up our persons to their will, We gave with those our valour, fortune, skill.

+Don O.+ But this condition tacitly was meant, Kings should adjust reward and punishment.

+Don A.+ Kings are the only judges of deserts, And our tribunal's seated in their hearts.

+Don O.+ But if they judge and act amiss, what then?

+Don A.+ They must account to th' powers above, not men.[55]

+Don O.+ Then we must suffer?

+Don A.+ Yes; if we reject Their power as too great, we must erect A greater to control them; and thus we, Instead of shrinking, swell the tyranny.

+Don O.+ W' obey for fear, then?

+Don A.+ True: 'tis only above, Where pow'r is justice, and obedience love.

+Don O.+ I'm glad to find in you the seeds yet left Of steady virtue; may they bring forth fruit, Fit to illustrate and instruct the age. Let me once more embrace you: welcome, brave man, [_Embraces +Don Antonio+._ Both the delight and honour of your friends.

+Don A.+ You will give me leave, sir, to distinguish Betwixt your judgment and civility.

+Don O.+ He has not liv'd i' th' reach of public fame, Who is a stranger to your character. This is my house; be pleas'd, sir, to go in, And make it yours, though truly at present I am but in an ill condition To receive the honour of such a guest, Having, by an unlucky accident, Been forc'd of late to keep myself conceal'd.

+Don A.+ I humbly thank you, sir, but cannot yet Receive your favour; for I must stay here, Expecting the return of one I sent Before me to my brother-in-law's.

+Don O.+ Have you a brother-in-law in Seville? You surprise me much.

+Don A.+ It is most true, Octavio, I come hither A married man, as much as friends can make me.

+Don O.+ Since it imports you not to miss your servant, Let us stay here without until he comes, And then go in and rest yourself awhile. But how go our affairs in Flanders?

+Don A.+ I left our armies in a better state Than formerly.

+Don O.+ And your governor, the Duke of Alva, I suppose, in great[er] reputation?

+Don A.+ The honour of our country and the terror Of others: Fortune consulted Reason When she bestow'd such favours upon him.

+Don O.+ And yet 'tis said, he loses ground at court.

+Don A.+ 'Tis possible: under a jealous prince A great's as prejudicial as an evil fame.

+Don O.+ They say he's cruel, even to barbarity.

+Don A.+ 'Tis mercy, that which they call cruelty. In a civil war, in fertile provinces (And the sun sees not richer than are these), The soldier, especially the auxiliary, Whose trade it is to fight for salary, Is brib'd by gain the rebels' lives to spare, That mutual quarter may prolong the war; Till this slow fever has consum'd their force, And then they'll fall to our rival France, of course. War made in earnest maketh war to cease, And vigorous prosecution hastens peace.

+Don O.+ Y' have made me comprehend his conduct: he's sure As great a politician as a soldier.

+Don A.+ Loyalty's his centre, his circumf'rence, glory; And t' after ages he'll show great in story.

+Don O.+ And is our good friend, the Marquis d'Olivera, In high esteem?

+Don A.+ The boast of [all] our army: h' has exceeded Hope, and made flattery impossible.

+Don O.+ They say he did wonders at the siege of Mons.[56]

+Don A.+ You mean, as I suppose, at the pursuit O' th' German army, led by the Prince of Orange? Indeed his courage and his conduct there Were very signal.

+Don O.+ You'll much oblige me if, whilst you expect Your servant here, I might learn from yourself Some few particulars of your own actions; Fame speaks loudly of them, but not distinctly.

+Don A.+ Fame, like water, bears up the lighter things, And lets the weighty sink. I do not use To speak in the first person; but if you needs Will have a story to fill up the time, I'll tell you an adventure of my own, Where you'll find love so intermix'd with arms, That, I am confident, 'twill raise your wonder, How, being prepossess'd with such a passion, I should, upon prudential motives only, Be engag'd, as now you find me, to marry A lady whom I never saw.

+Don O.+ The person and the subject, sir, both challenge My best attention.

+Don A.+ [_After a little pause._] The following evening to that glorious day, Wherein the Duke of Alva gain'd such fame Against the cautelous Nassau, some horse Were sent from the army under my command. To cover the Limbourg frontiers, much expos'd To th' enemy's inroads. My troops scarce lodg'd, I receiv'd intelligence that a party Of th' enemy, about two hundred horse, Were newly come t' a village three leagues off, Intending there to lodge. Immediately We sounded to horse, and march'd[57] to their surprise So lustily,[58] that by the break of day Their quarters were on fire.

+Don O.+ You had been taught, sir, by your wise general, That diligence in execution is (Even above fortune) mistress of success.

+Don A.+ They made but faint resistance: some were slain, Some perish'd in the fire, others escap'd, Giving the alarm in quarters more remote To their companions drown'd in sleep and wine Who, at the outcry and the noise of trumpets, Methinks I fancy starting from their beds, As pale and wan, as from their dormitories Those the last trump shall rouse: diff'ring in this, That those awake to live, but these to die.

+Don O.+ O, how unsafe it is to be secure!

+Don A.+ Finding no more resistance, I made haste To a lofty structure which, as I conceiv'd, Was the likeliest quarter for their officer; Led thither by desire to rescue both-- Him from the soldier's rage, that from the fire.

+Don O.+ A care most worthy of a gallant leader.

+Don A.+ But think, Octavio, how I was surpris'd When, entering a pavilion i' th' garden, I found a woman of a matchless form, Stretch'd all along upon the marble floor.

+Don O.+[59] I easily can divine how such a heart, As harbours in the brave Antonio's breast, May suffer at so sad a spectacle.

+Don A.+ At the first sight I did believe her dead; Yet in that state so awful she appear'd, That I approach'd her with as much respect As if the soul had animated still That body which, though dead, scarce mortal seem'd. But as, the sun from our horizon gone, His beams do leave a tincture on the skies, Which shows it was not long since he withdrew: So in her lovely face there still appear'd Some scatter'd streaks of those vermilion beams, Which us'd t' irradiate that bright firmament. Thus did I find that distress'd miracle, Able to wound a heart as if alive, Uncapable to cure it as if dead.

+Don O.+ I no more doubt your pity than your wonder.

+Don A.+ My admiration did suspend my aid, Till passion join'd to pity made me bold. I kneel'd, and took her in my arms, then bow'd Her body gently forward; at which instant A sigh stole from her. O the ravishing sound! Which being a symptom of remaining life Made me forget that 'twas a sign of grief. At length she faintly opens her bright eyes: So breaks the day, and so do all the creatures Rejoice, as I did, at the new-born light: But as the Indians, who adore the sun, Are scorch'd by's beam, ere half his race be run, So I, who did adore her rising eyes, Found myself wounded by those deities.

+Don O.+ I am big with expectation; pray Deliver me.

+Don A.+ From her fair hand a bloody poniard fell, Which she held fast during her trance, as if Sh' had only needed arms whilst she did sleep, And trusted to her eyes when she did wake. What I said to her, being a production Of mere ecstasy, I remember not. She made me no reply; yet I discern'd, In a serener air of her pale face, Some lines of satisfaction mix'd with fear.

+Don O.+ Such looks in silence have an eloquence. But pray go on.

+Don A.+ Rais'd from the ground, and to herself return'd, I stepp'd a fitting distance back, as well To gaze upon that lovely apparition, As to express respect; when at that instant The trumpets sound a charge; my soldiers cry, Where is our leader? Where's Antonio? My love awhile disputed with my honour, But that, being the longer-settled power, O'ercame; I join'd my troops, left in reserve, As they were ready to receive a charge From divers squadrons of fresh horse who, being Quarter'd in neighbouring villages, had taken Hotly th' alarm, and came, though then too late, In succour of their friends. Honour and love Had so inflam'd my heart, that I advanc'd Beyond the rules of conduct, and receiv'd So many wounds, that I with faintness fell.

+Don O.+ How can this story end?

+Don A.+ My soldiers beat the enemy, and brought me off, Where surgeons quickly cur'd my outward wounds; But the remembrance of that heroine My inward hurts kept bleeding still afresh; Till, by the business of the war constrain'd T' attend my charge i' th' army, my despair Of ever seeing her again conspiring With the strong persuasions of Olivera, I was at length even forc'd to an engagement Of marriage with a lady of this city, Rich, noble, and, as they say, beautiful. And so you have me here, come to consummate Those nuptial rites to which my interest, And the importunity of trusty friends, O'errule my judgment, though against my heart.

+Don O.+ A wonderful adventure! but pray, sir, May I not take the liberty to ask you, Who may this noble lady be, to whom The fates have destin'd so much happiness?

+Don A.+ I have no reserves for you, Octavio, 'Tis the sister of----

_Enter +Ernesto+, and +Don Octavio+ retires hastily, and covers his face with his cloak._

+Don A.+ [_Nodding to +Octavio+._] It is my servant, sir.

+Don O.+ Step to Antonio, Diego, and desire him To send him off. [_+Diego+ goes to +Antonio+ and whispers._

+Don A.+ I will immediately. Well, Ernesto, What good news? speak freely.

+Ern.+ Sir, as you charg'd me, I told your brother-in-law I thought you hardly could be there this night. He kisses your hands, and bad me tell you, That he expects your coming with impatience. This letter's from Don Henrique, th' other's from Your beauteous bride, the most accomplish'd person I ever saw: my being of your train Gave me the privilege of a domestic, To see her in her chamber-dress without A veil, either to cover faults or hide Perfections.

+Don A.+ Tell me truly, is she so very handsome?

+Ern.+ Handsomer far, in my opinion, sir, Than all those Brussels beauties, which you call The finish'd pieces: but I say no more; Let your own eyes inform you; here's a key Of the apartment that's made ready for you; A lower quarter, very nobly furnish'd, That opens on St Vincent's Street.

+Don A.+ Give it me, and go to the post-house, And take care that my things be brought from, thence. [_Exit +Ernesto+._ Octavio, will you go along with me, And be a witness of my first address?

+Don O.+ Sir, you choose in me an ill companion Of lovers' interviews or nuptial joys: One whose misfortunes to such sad extremes Are heighten'd, that the very mentioning Of happy hours serves only to embitter The memory of my lost joys.

+Don A.+ So very deep a sense of your misfortunes Holds no proportion with Octavio's mind.

_+Enter+ +Flora+ in haste._

+Flo.+ Where's your master, Diego?

+Diego.+ There's some ill towards, when this bird appears. [_Aside._ Do you not see him? y' have liv'd too long a maid.

+Flo.+ Sir, I have something to say t' you in private, That requires haste.

+Don O.+ What new accident brings you hither, Flora?

+Flo.+ These tablets will inform you, sir. [_+Flora+ retires._

+Diego.+ Will you not stay for an answer, damsel?

+Flo.+ 'Tis a command, not a question, Diego.

+Diego.+ Short and sweet, Flora.

+Don O.+ Good Flora, stay a minute. I much fear It is some new misfortune.

+Diego.+ Nay, sir, you may be sure 'tis some disaster, Else it would ne'er have come so easily, And so unsought for.

+Don O.+ Will you allow me for a moment, sir, To step into my house, and read a letter? [_Bowing to +Antonio+._

+Don A.+ I'll wait upon you in, and stay your leisure. [_Exeunt all but +Diego+._

+Diego.+ These little black books do more devils raise Than all the figures of the conjurors. This is some missive from the heroine: If it ends not in fighting, I'll be hang'd; It is the method of their dear romances, And persons of their rank make love by book. Curse o'[60] th' inventor of that damn'd device Of painting words, and speaking to our eyes! Had I a hundred daughters, by this light, Not one of 'em should ever read or write.

_Enter +Flora,+ and seems to go away in haste._

Here she comes again. 'Twas a quick despatch. A word, Flora, or a kind glance at least; What, grown cruel?

+Flo.+ Diego, nobody w' you?[61] This is no time for fooling, friend.

+Diego.+ Nay, if you be so serious, fare you well. But, now I think on't better, I'll do th' honours Of our street, and bring you to the end on't.

+Flo.+ I shall be well help'd up with such a squire. If some wandering knight should chance to assault you, To bear away your damsel, what would you do?

+Diego.+ I'd use no other weapon but a torch: I'd put aside your veil, show him your face, That, I suppose, would guard us both.

+Flo.+ Why, d' you think 'twould fright him, Diego?

+Diego.+ O no, 'twould charm him, Flora.

+Flo.+ Well, such as 'tis, I'll venture it without Engaging your known valour: [so,] good night. [_Exit +Flora+._

_Enter +Don Octavio+ and +Don Antonio+._

+Don O.+ What may this be? I swear I cannot guess; The warning's short; but she must be obeyed. The hour draws near. I must go seek a friend, Her words seem to imply need of a second: 'Twere barbarous to engage Antonio, Newly arriv'd, and come on such an errand. [_Aside._ Noble Antonio, my confusion's great, [_Addressing +Antonio+._ To tell you thus abruptly I must leave you; Th' occasion's indispensable.

+Don A.+ I must not quit you, sir, I know too well The laws of honour to desert you now: When I perceive my friend in such disorder, And[62] all the marks that he is call'd to danger, To leave him then----

+Don O.+ It is a summons from a lady, sir, Whom I have lov'd with passion and success, To meet her in her garden presently. All is propitious on her part and mine; But she's so guarded by a tyrant brother, So naturally jealous, and so incens'd By a late accident which I shall tell you, That to assure you there would be no danger In this adventure, were (sir) to abuse you: But for that very reason I am bound Not to consent you should embark yourself In a business so directly opposite To the occasion which has brought you hither.

+Don A.+ I like the omen: at my first arrival To have the honour to serve so brave a friend.

+Don O.+ You from a life of perils hither come To find a nuptial-bed, not seek a tomb.

+Don A.+ My friend engag'd, it never must be said Antonio left him so to go to bed.

+Don O.+ Y' are married, and expose what's not your own.

+Don A.+ Wedded to honour, that must yield to none.

+Don O.+ Honour makes me refuse your aid; we must As well to friends as to ourselves be just.

+Don A.+ He ought not to pretend to friendship's name, Who reckons not himself and friend the same.

+Don O.+ Friendship with justice must not disagree, That were to break the virtue's harmony.

+Don A.+ Friendship is justice; for whene'er we give, We then receive: so 'tis commutative.

+Don O.+ So great's your friendship, you your friend oppress: To make it juster, you must make it less.

+Don A.+ Friendship can never err in the extent: Like Nile, when't overflows, 'tis most beneficent.

+Don O.+ I find, Antonio, you will still subdue.

+Don A.+ I owe my triumph to my cause, not you. Come, we lose time; your mistress must not stay.

+Don O.+ Who's so accompani'd, needs not fear his way. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[55] It may be mentioned here, that throughout the third edition certain sententious passages, and moral and political apothegms, are printed in italics. This ultra-loyal line, and some others of the same kind so distinguished, were first inserted in the copy of the play published two years before the death of the author.--_Collier._

[56] In the year 1572 the town of Mons, in Hainault, was surprised by Count Lodowicke, who fortified himself in it, intending to hold it against the power of Spain. It was soon after invested by the Duke of Alva, and surrendered to him after a long siege, notwithstanding the Prince of Orange, who came before it with an army, with which he some time harassed his enemy, but without effecting his principal design.

[57] [Former edits., _march_.]

[58] [Former edits., _luckily_.]

[59] In the third edition, by an error, this speech is not distinguished from Antonio's description, but it would evidently belong to Octavio, even if, in the two earlier copies, the same mistake had been committed.--_Collier._

[60] [_i.e., On._ Former edits., _of_.]

[61] [In former edits. this line is given to Diego.]

[62] [Perhaps we should read _With_.]