ACT I. SCENE I.

_The neighbourhood of Madrid._

_Enter_ RODERIGO, LOUIS, _and_ DIEGO.

LOUIS. Roderigo! DIEGO. Art mad? ROD. Yes, not so much with wine: it’s as rare to see a Spaniard a drunkard as a German sober, an Italian no whoremonger, an Englishman to pay his debts. I am no borachio;[170] sack, malaga, nor canary, breeds the calenture in my brains; mine eye mads me, not my cups. LOUIS. What wouldst have us do? ROD. Do? DIEGO. So far as ’tis fit for gentlemen[171] we’ll venture. ROD. I ask no more. I ha' seen a thing has bewitched me; a delicate body, but this in the waist [_shewing the size by a sign_]; foot and leg tempting; the face I had [only] a glimpse of, but the fruit must needs be delicious, the tree being so beautiful. LOUIS. Prithee, to the point. ROD. Here ’tis: an old gentleman—no matter who he is—an old gentlewoman—I ha' nothing to do with her—but a young creature that follows them, daughter or servant, or whatsoever she be, her I must have: they are coming this way; shall I have her? I must have her. DIEGO. How, how? LOUIS. Thou speakest impossibilities. ROD. Easy, easy, easy! I'll seize the young girl; stop you the old man; stay you the old woman. LOUIS. How then? ROD. I'll fly off with the young bird, that’s all; many of our Spanish gallants act these merry parts every night. They are weak and old, we young and sprightly: will you assist me? LOUIS. Troth, Roderigo, any thing in the way of honour. ROD. For a wench, man, any course is honourable. LOUIS. Nay, not any; her father, if he be[172] her father, may be noble. ROD. I am as noble. LOUIS. Would the adventure were so! ROD. Stand close, they come.

_Enter_ PEDRO, MARIA, _and_ CLARA.

PED. ’Tis late; would we were in Madrill![173] MAR. Go faster, my lord. PED. Clara, keep close. [LOUIS _and_ DIEGO _hold_ PEDRO _and_ MARIA, _while_ RODERIGO _seizes_ CLARA. CLA. Help, help, help! ROD. Are you crying out? I'll be your midwife. [_Exit, bearing off_ CLARA. PED. What mean you, gentlemen? MAR. Villains! thieves! murderers! PED. Do you [not] know me? I am De Cortes, Pedro de Cortes. LOUIS. De Cortes?—Diego, come away. [_Exit with_ DIEGO. PED. Clara!—where is my daughter? MAR. Clara!—these villains Have robb’d us of our comfort, and will, I fear, Her of her honour. PED. This had not wont to be Our Spanish fashion; but now our gallants, Our gentry, our young dons, heated with wine,— A fire our countrymen do seldom sit at,— Commit these outrages.—Clara!—Maria, Let’s homeward; I will raise Madrill to find These traitors to all goodness.—Clara! MAR. Clara! [_Exeunt._