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Zoray. What, girl ?

Agnes. Why, of a truth, then, madam, if Sadi went with
us, methinks I should feel more valiant.
Zoray. Take heed, good Agnes ;search thy bosom

Nor draw this half-converted Moor alang,
To swell thy giddy pride, and woman's lightness.
My purposes are pure and solemn, Agnes ;
Did not a holy light direct my course,
Not all the love which I do bear to Virolet
Could tear me from a father :-therefore, Agnes,
Probe to thy heart; if thou dost find it steady
Unto this Moor, bring him away with thee;
Else sully not my sacred enterprise,
With ill-beseeming levity. Anon
Thou'lt find me in my chamber.

Exit, R. Agnes. What a world of pains it saves, to have one s mind ready made up to be married at short notice! I ha) lost, else, the time for my journey, in debating on the fitness of my company. Heigho! I would my Sadi were a shade lighter. No slave-driver in all Granada has a sweeter disposition. Father Sebastian, a captive here, good soul, says that when a Moor turns Christian, faith will work anything. I wonder if it ever whitens the skin ? —'bating his complexion, Sadi is a proper man, with the best curled hair of any in Spain. Would the evening muster were over, and the guard placed for the night.

When the hollow drum has beat to bed,
When the little fifer hangs his head,

Still and mute

The Moorish flute,
And nodding guards watch wearily;

Then will we,

From prison free,
March out by moonlight cheerily.
When the Moorish cymbals clash by day
When the brazen trumpets shrilly bray

The slave in vain

May then complain
Of tyranny and knavery;

Would he know

His time to go,
And slily slip from slavery-


T18 when the hollow drum has beat to bed;
When the little fifer hangs his head;

Still and mute,

The Moorish flute,
And nodding guards watch wearily:

Oh, then must he,

From prison free,
March out by moonlight cheerily!

Enter SADI, L.
Sadi. Hist, hist, Agnes ! whither away?

Agnes. Sadi,- I was going to the lady Zorayda. Thou art come to my very wish.

Sadi. To see what luck is—that the appearance of a man Moor should tickle thus the inclination of a little she Christian !_did'st really wish to see me, Agnes ?

Agnes. You have been always welcome to me, Sadi, ever since you brought me the little purse of piastres to send to my father, who is in want, though the lady Zorayda's bounty prevented my taking it. I love thee for thy neart,- dearly, Sadi.

Sadi. I doubt, now, whether that be not the best thing about a man that a wench can take a fancy to, after all.– Should a knave, that could be flinty-hearted to a poor girl in distress, fall in my way, and propose to chop natures with me, I would not change with him, though his face were as white as a cauliflower. Kiss me, Agnes. [Kisses her.] 'Tis thus I have been converted.

Agnes. Nay, now

Sadi. By the mass, 'tis true. Had forty fat monks failed in preaching Mahomet out of me, thy lips, Agnes, would convince me.

Agnes. Prithee, listen.-The lady Zorayda will away tonight. Sadi. I guessed as much. Agnes. Ay, marry, why so ?

Sadı. There is a captive waits now for Count Virolethis sworn friend—who is to be partner in the flight. He seems well fitted for danger and secrecy. He is both brawny and faithful. I had brought him hither, but I was told you were here, Agnes.

Agnes. Well, Sadi, thou know'st I am trusted with all. Sadi. True,—but, to be plain, he is of the Irish nation.

and when a man would talk of business with a female those of his country are noted for taking off his atten tion.

Agnes. Out on thee! thou would'st turn jealous shortly Well, night is near; and, when I am gone with the lady Zorayda, thou wilt think kinder of me.

Sadi. How !—what !-what, dost thou go with her Agnes ? Agnes. Surely. Sadi. What, and leave-umph!

Agnes. Would'st have me tarry behind, when my good lady is in danger, and lose, too, the means of freedom ? thou know'st that—why, what is it ails thee, Sadi ?-art not well ?

Sadi. Yes-nothing—'tis a- tis the cholic, Agnes. Tonight, said you ?

Agnes. Ay, Sadi : and here—I have a little rosary; you shall keep it for my sake: let me tie it on thy neck-sothou'lt think of me now sometimes, when thou louk'st at it, Sadi?

Sadi. Agnes, I–I cannot well speak at present. I thought we had bid fair to stick together through life. I will not upbraid you. Allah bless you, Agnes! and should you meet a lighter-skinned lover, may he be as fond and as faithful as the poor dusky fellow you leave broken-hearted behind you.

Agnes. Nay, but Sadi

Sadi. Farewell! I looked shortly to have been taken to be christened, had you proved steady to me. I am now neither Moor nor Catholic :-and should thy unkindness wear me to the grave, I can claim little better than piebald burial. Go, Agnes, and happiness be with you.

Agnes. And when I go a step without you, Sadi, may I never know what 'tis to be happy again.

Sadi. Eh !

Agnes. Oh, my poor dear Sadi! forgive the pain I havo put thee to; but you seemed jealous of me, Sadi; and in punishing you for't, beshrew me, now, but I have punished myself.

Sadi. Now could I be displeased in my turn, were I not too glad to be angry. Your hand, Agnes-1 have of fended, and thou carry'st the whip. Do not fear finding me guilty again; for thou hast, now, laid it on 84 tightly, that, were I to live a thousand years, the snart on't would never out of my memory.

Agnes. Comfort thee, Sadi The lady Zorayda has consented that thou should'st along with me. Liberty is now before me, and as thou lovest me, let us away. Prepare thee quickly, for night is coming on.

Fetches a guitar from R. Sadi. Farewell, master! I will pack up straight. With five years' pay, a true heart, three shirts, Christianity in my head, and thee under my arm, will I this night take a long leave of Granada. Hang care, and a guitar at thy back, Agnes, and we'll jog merrily over the mountains in to Andalusia.


Sadi. Oh! happy tawny. Moor!-when you, love

Climb the mountain with your true love,

Will you by the way,

The music play?
Your sweet guitar a tinkling-Sadi
Listens to his Spanish lady.

Tang, tanki, tanki, tang, tang,

Tanki, tanki, tay. Agnes. Oh! bonny tawny Moor! together,

As we brave the wind and weather,

Wont you by the way

From Agnes stray ?
While their guitars are tinkling Sadi,
Love no other Spanish lady.

Tang, tanki, tanki, tang, tang

Tanki, tanki, tay.
Sadi. Cease, pretty Agnes, cease:-no beauty

E'er could draw me from my duty.

Let them all the day

Their music play.
Agres Then my guitar a tinkling-Sadi
Follow now your Spanish lady.

Tang, tanki, tanki, tang, tang

Tanki, tanki, tay.
Both. Then my guitar, &c.

Her sweet guitar a tinkling-Sadi
Follows now his Spanish lady.

Tang, tanki, tanki, tang tang

Tanki, tanki, tay.

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ere, my Pacha.

Scene III.- The Market Place in the Town of Granada. Enter the MOORISH GUARD, Officers, fc., with Standard

and Pikes, R. U. E. Pacha. Ali Beg! Ali,

Pacha. Ali, having this day raised thee from the ranks, 'tis fit I do commend the care with which thou hast drawn forth the soldiery. How long hast thou borne arms, Ali ?

Ali. Five-and-twenty-years, so please you, the last moon of Moharram.

Pacha. And see, thou art now promoted. Mark, Ali, the advantage of the Mussulman army.

While the wornout Catholic soldier retires, that a younger man may fill his place, then is the happy Moor advanced to all the glorious fatigues of duty. His aching bones never draw upon him the neglect of his officer, who heaps threefold em. ployment upon his aged shoulders, in reward of his past service !-thou hast now, Ali, the full pay of thy deceased predecessor.

Ali. Thy slave thanks thee, noble Pacha.

Pacha. Out of which, Ali, thou hast simply to maintain his four widows left behind him.--Bless thyself, Ali, that thou art born to fight under Moorish leaders; who are distinguished by such charity as is never thought of in a

Is each man here according to the roll ? Ali. All.

Pacha. I will first address them; then, Ali, march them to their posts for the night.—Moors and soldiers ! under the renowned Mahomet Bobadili Chiquito, King of Granada ! 'tis the regard of your commander now cautions you that you relax not from your charge. My tenderness bids you be vigilant through the night, that ye may 'scape the bowstring to which I should otherwise sentence you in the morning. The true soldier thinks his duty a pleasure; and none of you, my honest fellows, on pain of death, shall forego the pleasure of your duty. The Spaniards who besiege us are Christians—you are Moors. Remember, then, you fight in the cause of your religion ; maintain its amiable doctrines to the last, and show your

Christian army.

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