Refresh thee, Roque-and so, good night, good fellow.

[Exit, R.

Tocho. Do you not follow your master, to help him undress, friend?

Roque. That is my business, friend.

Tocho. By our lady, I never found a gentleman know his own business better, and do it worse! What may thy master be, friend?

Roque. That is his business, friend;—but for me, I am a soldier, and have learned somewhat in the wars.

Tocho. Ay, marry-I would fain know what 'tis. Roque. 'Tis, when I see a knave thrust his nose into the business of another, to tweak it very lustily.

[Pulls his nose. Tocho. Signor, I do reverence a soldier-but I never much cared to see him go through his manœuvres.

Roque. Follow. I shall to the loft and turn in an hour or two. Bring the bottle after me, and place it on the hay truss where I lay me down.

[Exit up the ladder into the loft. Tocho. And if I carry my countenance so near the fin ger and thumb of such a nose-tweaker again, I would my face might want a handle ever after. Oons! I shall dream of nothing all night but the huge paw of a trooper.Tweak! well, let him but lie one hour in the loft, and he'll be the best flea-bitten bully in Andalusia. [Exit, R.

SCENE II.-The Sierra de Ronda.

Enter VIROLET, ZORAYDA, and KILMALLOCK, R.

Viro. Love, not a word? good faith, it is no wonder: Thou must be sadly worn, Zorayda;

Sleep hangs upon those pretty eyes of thine,

And dulls their lustre. Art not wond'rous weary ?
Zoray. The spirit, Christian, that did prompt my flight,
Will give me strength, I warrant, to endure it.

'Twere evil in me to forget my father

But were he now less heavy on my thoughts,

I should be found a stouter traveller.

Kilm. What a sweet little Moor it is! och, she can never be her father's daughter! By St. Dominick, Count, this same escaping for fatiguing work is mighty hard la

bour.

Viro. A few leagues more, and we shall reach the town That skirts this mountain-there, to horse again; And thence to Seville; to my friends, Zorayda, Where the strong power of our holy church Shall seal my title to the sweetest convert That ever yet abjured her heresy,

And sheltered in its bosom.

Zoray. Would we were there! for though I have been told

Your duty preaches patience to the sufferer,

I fear this painful march may make me peevish;
And that were sinful. Do not mock me, love;
But I shall prove, I doubt, a sorry Christian.

Kilm. Oh, faith, you'll be as good as the best. I never knew a young Christian lady yet, that was not impatient when she was going to get married. Well, this mountain is what they call the Sierra de Ronda-close to the borders of Andalusia-here we are in the middle of it, with as fine prospect of a dark night, as a traveller could wish to look round upon.

Viro. Would our companions were

strange

They loiter thus !

Zoray. I tremble in these wilds

For my poor Agnes.

come up:

: 'tis

Kilm. And that copper devil, Sadi, too! certain, now, our horses foundered at the foot of the mountain, that he might stay behind to look after them: and the girl sat down weeping by his side, to help him.

Zoray. Poor wench! her heart is stored with kindness. Kilm. Och, it's brimful! But this is the first time I ever heard squatting down to cry, was the way to help a man to pull horses out of the mire.

Viro. Wilt forward, sweet? or shall we tarry for them? Zoray. Sooth, I am weary now-yet I could onAnd yet I could not. Shall I tell thee, love; I could not leave this honest wench behind, And sleep in quiet. She is humble born; But trust me, Christian, I do see no cause Why I should blush in feeling for the lowly. The peasant pining on his bed of straw,

Should draw as warm a tear from melting pity,
As when a monarch suffers.

Viro. Lovely excellence!

Virtue, all sweet before, steals o'er thy lip,

"As the soft breeze that bends the modest rose,

66

'Grown sweeter in its passage. Thou may'st preach "When rigid schoolmen fail, and win with gentleness; "Cause even shame to spread the proud man's cheek, "And make the world in love with charity."

[Drums beat at a distance. Hark! heard you not a distant drum, Kilmallock?

Kilm. Faith, and it is a drum! it does a soldier's heart good to hear it thump-though, to be sure, now, it is not quite so convanient. These Moors, though they are most of 'em penned up in Granada, keep skirmishing and trotting all over the province. Friends or enemies, it isn't civil in 'em to keep a clatter at this time' o' night, and disturb us lodgers in the mountain.

Zoray. I sink with terror.

Kilm. Nay, that you shall not. It never shall be said that a woman sank in the hour of distress, while a man stands by that can hold up her chin.

Zoray. Let us not forward now, beseech you,
Trust me, there's danger in't.-Poor Agnes, too!
Seek me some covert in this tufted mountain,
Where, till the day appears, I may repose,
And rest in safety.

Viro. Come, Zorayda!

Virolet.

And the next bank o'ercanopied with trees
Must now, perforce, be thy rude lodging, sweet!
I and my comrade will watch near thee. Cheerly!
So-cheerly!-all will yet be well.

[Exeunt Virolet and Zorayda, R. Kilm. I'll hover about here, as an out-post.-When a man watches in the dark, by himself, on a mountain, he's rather apt to be lonesome; but if he chances to be upon duty there, to serve a friend and guard female innocence, he needs but call in his own thoughts to be mighty agreeable company. This love makes havoc with man, woman, and child! though, of a truth, the passion is some. what blunted in me, sit ce I left Tipperary.

SONG. KILMALLOCK.

At sixteen years old you could get little good of me,
Then I saw Norah,-who soon understood of me,
I was in love-but myself, for the blood of me,
Could not tell of me what I did ail.

'Twas dear, dear! what can the matter be!
Och, blood and ouns! what can the matter be '
Och, gramachree! what can the matter be!
Bothered from head to the tail.

I went to confess me to Father O'Flanagan;
Told him my case,-made an end-then began again :
Father, says I, make me soon my own man again,
If you find out what I ail.

Dear, dear! says he, what can the matter be!
Och, blood and ouns! what can the matter be!
Both cried out, what can the matter be!

Bothered from head to the tail!

Soon I fell sick-I did bellow and curse again,-
Norah took pity to see me at nurse again:

Gave me a kiss;-och, zounds, that threw me worse again'
Well she knew what I did ail:

But dear, dear! says she, what can the matter be!
Och, blood and ouns! my lass, what can the matter be!
Both cried out, what can the matter be!

Bothered from head to the tail.

'Tis long ago now since I left Tipperary;

How strange, growing older, our nature should vary!
All symptoms are gone of my ancient quandary-
I cannot tell now what I ail.

Dear, dear! what can the matter be?

Och! blood and ouns! what can the matter be?
Och, gramachree! what can the matter be?

I'm bothered from head to the tail.

[Exit, L.

SCENE III.-Another Part of the Sierra de Ronda.—A Cave covered with bushes, L. 3d E.—A rude Bank, with stumps of trees, R.—Daybreak.

Enter two GOATHERDS, L.

First G. See yonder, where day peeps! Here is the cave, father; hang your wine keg at the mouth on't, and then away to tend your goats.

Second G. Poor gentleman! a sup on't may cheer his heart. [Hangs the keg at the mouth of the cave, L. 3d E.] 'Tis sorry lodging to be a tenant of this cave for a twelvemonth, as he has been, and trust to Providence and us

goatherds for board.

That a civil, well-favou red cavalier

should come to this pass!

When a' met me i'

First G. Civil!-Plague on him! the dusk, as a' straggled a league from this, a' snatched a brown loaf from my hand, and gave me a shower of thwacks on the shoulders for payment.

Second G. Alas, boy! that was in his mood-his melancholy. 'Twill, as thou know'st, trouble him sore at times, but it rarely lasts.

First G. Flesh! I know 'twill at times trouble others, and the soreness lasts a week after it. What affairs should call a melancholy gentleman like him to our wild mountains?

Second G. Diego, I think I have hit on't: I do think 'tis love has put him beside himself. Ask thy mother, boy, when she crossed me in wooing, how I would sometimes start from reason.

First G. Troth, father, you have that trick still: I fear e, you have been ill-cured. Second G. Out, graceless!

me,

stir?

Hush! dost not hear him

First G. Nay, then, come away, father, and leave your charity behind you. An' he should be in his mood, now, we might as well meet the devil. Run, old man, or Melancholy will cudgel thee! Away! father, away!

[Exeunt, R.

Enter OCTAVIAN from the cave, L. 3d E.

Oct. I cannot sleep. The leaves are newly pulled
And, as my burning body presses them,
Their freshness mocks my misery. That frets me!
And then I could outwatch the lynx. 'Tis dawn.
Thou hot and rolling sun! I rise before thee;
For I have twice thy scorching flames within me,
And am more restless. Now to seek my willow,
That droops his mournful head across the brook:
He is my calendar; I'll score his trunk
With one more long-long day of solitude!
I shall lose count else in my wretchedness,
And that were pity. Oh, Octavian !

Where are the times thy ardent nature painted,
When fortune smiled upon thy lusty youth,