SCENE II.

_A room in_ FERNANDO’S _house_.

_Enter_ FERNANDO, FRANCISCO, PEDRO, _and_ LOUIS.

FER. See, Don Louis; an arm,[337] The strongest arm in Spain, to the full length Is stretch’d to pluck old count Alvarez home From his sad banishment. LOUIS. With longing eyes, My lord, I expect the man: your lordship’s pardon, Some business calls me from you. FER. Prithee, Don Louis, Unless th' occasion be too violent, Stay and be merry with us; all the gipsies Will be here presently. LOUIS. I'll attend your lordship Before their sports be done. FER. Be your own carver. [_Exit_ LOUIS. [_To_ FRAN.] Not yet shake off these fetters? I see a son Is heavy when a father carries him On his old heart. FRAN. Could I set up my rest That he were lost, or taken prisoner, I could hold truce with sorrow; but to have him Vanish I know not how, gone none knows whither, ’Tis that mads me. PED. You said he sent a letter. FRAN. A letter? a mere riddle; he’s gone to see[k] His fortune in the wars; what wars have we? Suppose we had, goes any man to th' field Naked, unfurnish’d both [of] arms and money? FER. Come, come, he’s gone a-wenching; we in our youth Ran the self-same bias.

_Enter_ DIEGO.

DIEGO. The gipsies, my lord, are come. FER. Are they? let them enter. [_Exit_ DIEGO. My lord De Cortes, send for your wife and daughter; Good company is good physic: take the pains To seat yourselves in my great chamber. See, They[338] are here.— [_Exeunt._ FRANCISCO _and_ PEDRO.

_Enter_ ALVAREZ, GUIAMARA, CONSTANZA, CHRISTIANA, JOHN, RODERIGO, ANTONIO, CARLO, SANCHO, _and_ SOTO, _disguised as before_.

What’s your number? SAN. The figure of nine casts us all up, my lord. FER. Nine? let me see—you are ten, sure. SOTO. That’s our poet, he stands for a cipher. FER. Ciphers make numbers:—what plays have you? ALV. Five or six, my lord. FER. It’s well so many already. SOTO. We are promised a very merry tragedy, if all hit right, of Cobby Nobby. FER. So, so; a merry tragedy! there is a way Which the Italians and the Frenchmen use, That is, on a word given, or some slight plot, The actors will extempore fashion out Scenes neat and witty. ALV. We can do that, my lord; Please you bestow the subject. FER. Can you?—Come hither, You master poet: to save you a labour, Look you, against your coming I projected This comic passage [_producing a paper_]; your drama, that’s the scene—— ROD. Ay, ay, my lord. FER. I lay in our own country, Spain. ROD. ’Tis best so. FER. Here’s a brave part for this old gipsy; look you, The father: read the plot; this young she-gipsy, This lady: now the son, play him yourself. ROD. My lord, I am no player. FER. Pray, at this time, The plot being full, to please my noble friends, Because your brains must into theirs put language, Act thou the son’s part; I'll reward your pains. ROD. Protest, my lord—— FER. Nay, nay, shake off protesting; When I was young, sir, I have play’d myself. SAN. Yourself, my lord? you were but a poor company then. FER. Yes, full enough, honest fellow.—Will you do it? ROD. I'll venture. FER. I thank you: let this father be a don Of a brave spirit.—Old gipsy, observe me—— ALV. Yes, my lord. FER. Play him up high; not like a pantaloon,[339] But hotly, nobly, checking this his son, Whom make a very rake-hell, a debosh’d fellow.— This point, I think, will shew well. ROD. This of the picture? It will indeed, my lord. SAN. My lord, what part play I? FER. What parts dost use to play? SAN. If your lordship has ever a coxcomb, I think I could fit you. FER. I thank your coxcombship. SOTO. Put a coxcomb upon a lord! FER. There are parts to serve you all; go, go, make ready, And call for what you want. [_Exit._ ALV. Give me the plot; our wits are put to trial. What’s the son’s name? Lorenzo: that’s your part, [_To_ RODERIGO. Look only you to that; these I'll dispose: Old Don Avero, mine; Hialdo, Lollio, Two servants,—you for them. [_To_ SANCHO _and_ SOTO. SAN. One of the foolish knaves give me; I'll be Hialdo. SOTO. And I, Lollio. SAN. Is there a banquet in the play? we may call for what we will. ROD. Yes, here is a banquet. SAN. I'll go, then, and bespeak an ocean of sweet-meats, marmalade, and custards. ALV. Make haste to know what you must do. SAN. Do? call for enough; and when my belly is full, fill my pockets. SOTO. To a banquet there must be wine; fortune’s a scurvy whore, if she makes not my head sound like a rattle, and my heels dance the canaries.[340] ALV. So, so; despatch, whilst we employ our brains To set things off to th' life. ROD. I'll be straight with you.— [_Exeunt all except_ RODERIGO. Why does my father put this trick on me? Spies he me through my vizard? if he does, He’s not the king of Spain, and ’tis no treason; If his invention jet[341] upon a stage, Why should not I use action? A debosh’d fellow! A very rake-hell! this reflects on me, And I'll retort it: grown a poet, father? No matter in what strain your play must run, But I shall fit you for a roaring son. [_Exit._