woman one loves, when she's taking a nap, and check one's inclination of kissing her eyelids, for fear of awaking her? Should’st thou ever slumber at night, with thy head upon my shoulder, Agnes, I would not stir to disturb thee, though I were bit all over by a million of musquitos.

Agnes. Away, you giddy pate! Thou wilt be a right follower of the bottle shortly. When the liquor mounts, then thou wilt flatter me, and prate nonsense, like the best Christian toper of them all.

Sadi. Why, look thee, sweet: ere I loved a bottle, I loved a woman; and I am told, he that sticks fairly to the one, seldom behaves like a knave to the other. My love for wine is but of a few hours' growth; yet, though I am enamoured at first taste, I mean to stick by it with true Christian constancy; for it has let me into a secret, Agnes : every drop I take of it makes me find out how much delight I have in thy company; I grow fonder and fonder at every tipple.

Agnes. Ay, so it would happen were any other present but I.

Sadi. No, by Mahom--Pish! that's a Mussulman oath, and disgraces a mouth that has been washed with wine. By St. Dominick, then, sweet Agnes, should all the beauties of Spain be collected together, like a huge row of filberts, I would pick thee from the cluster, nor think another nut in the whole

grove

worth cracking. Agnes. Will thy love hold fast, now, after we are married, Sadi?

Sadi. Ay, marry, will it, and never let go. 'Tis in my nature, wench: you might as soon think to scour me white, as scrub my love out of me. 'Tis of the lasting kind, Agnes, like my countenance.

Agnes. And if thy skin grows dusky as thy love strengthens, Sadi, I should think thee pretty, though thy cheeks were as dark as a raven.

Sadi. There is no accounting for the taste of a female. Were all women of thy mind, Agnes, what a number of vain copper-faced gentlemen would strut about among the girls in Christian countries ! We should frisk it through the towns as merry as dogs in the market; and dingy puppies would be as plenty as those of a lighter complex ion!

Enter FLORANTHe and ROQUE, L.
Roque. Stand!
Art not a Moor, and an enemy?

Sadi. I have now near two full flagons of Christianity
within me, but I am somewhat Moorish as to impatience;
therefore, parley courteously, lest you get nothing but dry
blows in exchange.
Flor. Peace, peace! good Roque, and let me question

him.
Tell me, beseech you, as you journeyed on,
Has it so chanced that there should cross your path
A man-Good faith, it cuts my heart in twain
How to describe him! what and man

Sadi. Lovely as the day he was, but envious clouds
Have dimmed his lustre. He is as a rock
Opposed to the rude sea that beats against it;
Worn by the waves, yet still o'ertopping them
In sullen majesty. Rugged now his look ;
For, out, alas! calamity has blurred
The fairest pile of manly comeliness
That ever reared its lofty head to heaven!
'Tis not of late that I have heard his voice ;
But if it be not changed—I think it cannot
There is a melody in every tone
Would charm the towering eagle in her flight,
And tame a hungry lion.

Agnes. Never trust me, Sadi, if he means not our guide.

Sadi. [To Flor.] Answer me to one point, and I can satisfy you : is he crazy?

Roque. Crazy !-Now do my fingers itch to beat this unmannerly morsel of dinginess !

Sadi. Hark ye, rough sir: should occasion serve, I can go to cuffs with as good will as another.

Agnes. Nay, Sadi!
Sadi. I'll cuff him !
Agnes. Good Sadi !

Sadi. Well, then, I won't cuff him.
• Flor. Prythee, be calm, Roque. [To Sadi.] Now to

answer thee. He whom we seek, through wayward circumstance And crosses of the time though in the main,

veers.

His reason is most clear-will in some sort
(We learn it on the skirts here of this mountain.)
Start into passion; and his matter then,
Though method ever tempers his discourse,
May seem, I fear, to those who know him not,
Like idle phantasy.

Sadi. Well, such a man have I seen; such a man, in pure kindness, has conducted us hither; and such a man is now within, in the hut here,

Flor. Here !-Mercy, Heaven !

Roque. (Apart to Floranthe.) Nay, may; bear up, lady. Our labour now will soon have an end; all will be well, I warrant. [To Sadi.] Lead us in, my good fellow.

Sadi. [Aside.] Good fellow !- This is one of your weathercock knaves, now, that points always as the wind

A sudden puff of my information has blown him round to civility. | To Roque.] In, and we'll follow you; we must wait awhile, however, in the outward nook of the hovel; for to thrust ourselves suddenly into the presence of so moody a gentleman, might haply offend his dignity. (Exeunt Roque and Floranthe, c. D. F. Come, Agnes. Agnes. Have with you, Sadi.

Sadi, Nay, I would not budge an inch without you, sweet. I say, Agnes, this snug little cabin of the goatherd's, with good cheer and excellent Malaga, is better than trudging over the mountains with tired legs and empty stomachs.

At past labour laughing;

Better far, by hall, in
Spirits than before.
Oh! how merry then the rested traveller

Seems, while sitting at the goatherd's door! [Exeunt, L.

Scene III.— The Inside of a Goatherd's Cottage.

Enter OCTAVIAN and a GOATHERD, R. S. E. Goat. Neither food nor repose !-Well, 'tis strange!-Will nothing persuade you to take refreshment, gentle sir !

Oct. Nothing that thou canst say. Why, thou art old; And 'tis the trick of age to proffer gifts, Merely to tease the wretch that would accept them.

Goat. Nay, by our lady !

Oct. Hark ye : ere now, there came a hoary cheat,
And placed before my eyes the richest fare
That ever tempted glutton. What dost think?
When I would taste, he whipped it from the board,
And thrust me forth to starve. But he was fooled;
For then I drank huge draughts of sorrow down,
And banqueted on tears.

Goat. Mass! 'twas a sorry method of regaling! Were I given to revelry, I would look for liquor of another brewage.

Oct. Thou'dst look for anything to swell thy store,
Though thy full bags were bursting. Were the road
To one poor ducat paved with youthful hearts,
Sprinkle gray hairs upon a fellow's pate,
He'd trample o'er them all to catch at it.
Where are thy children ?

Goat. I have but one-one only daughter; and, alas ! she has gone I know not whither. Pedro had had my consent to woo her, had he not been altogether poor; and now she has strayed away in despair, because I would not see her wed unhappily. Oct. Why, 'twas well done!-'Twas justice on thy ava.

rice,
To doom thyself to living purgatory,
And fix within thy breast the gnawing thought
That thou hast driven forth thy innocent child,
Through the wide globe a friendless wanderer.
Oh! thou wilt thrive now in the shuffling crowd

Of this world's traffic! When the crover comes,
Sell him thy rotten goats, and rate them sound
As those of highest market. Cheat thy neighbour;
Fleece him, and fear not! Glut thyself on plunder;
For thou art sunk so low in hell for this,
There is no guilt in vice's catalogue
Can plunge thee deeper ! (A knocking without, L.
See who it is that knocks.

Goat. I will, sir; but I am not as you would picture me, for all your saying. I have not lived forty years on the credit of my cattle, to offer rotten rams for sale at this time of day, and pass them current. I shall to the door, sir.

[E.cit, L. Oct. Pulling a miniature from his bosom. Out, bauble! Let me kiss thee !-Sweet Floranthe! When the cold limner drew thy semblance here, How charmed I sat, to mark the modest flush That virgin nature threw into thy face, As the dull cold unmoved did stare upon thee, To pencil out thy features' character! Those times are past, Floranthe; yet ’tis comfort To bring remembrance full upon

the

eye; 'Tis soothing to a fond and care-worn heart To drop a tear on the loved lineaments Of her it ne'er must hope to meet again !

Enter ROQUE, L. Roque. (Aside.] Now know not I how to accost him. Poor gentleman! times are sadly changed with him since I saw him, fresh and well caparisoned, gazing on my young lady, in my old master's mansion at Seville ! [Aloud.] Signior, do you not remember my countenance ?

Oct. No; Providence has slubbered it in haste;
'Tis one of her unmeaning compositions
She manufactures when she makes à gross.
She'll form a million such, and all alike;
Then send them forth ashamed of her own work,
And set no mark upon them. Get thee gone !

Roque. Get me gone! Ah, signior! the time has been when you would question old Roque kindly after his health, as he lifted up the latch to give you admittance to poor Donna Floranthe!