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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, nay; 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.

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

DUET.-SADI and AGNES.

Faint and wearily, the way-worn traveller
Plods, uncheerily, afraid to stop;
Wand'ring, drearily, a sad unraveller

Of the mazes tew'rd the mountain's top.
Doubting, fearing,

While his course he's steering;

Cottages appearing

When he's nigh to drop:

Oh! how briskly then the way-worn traveller
Threads the mazes tow rd the mountain's top!

Though so melancholy day has passed by,
'Twould be folly now to think on't more
Blithe and jolly, he the keg holds fast by,
As he's sitting at the goatherd's door:
Eating, quaffing,

At past labour laughing;
Better far, by half, 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

1

SCENE III.]

Of this world's traffic! When the drover 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!
See who it is that knocks.

[A knocking without, L.

THE MOUNTAINEERS.

47

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, [Exit, L.

sir.

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 a 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!

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Oct. Thou hast shot lightning through me!
The sound was thrilling music! Oh, Fioranthe!
I thought not even the magic of thy name
Could make a heart, so long benumbed with misery,
Leap as 'twould burst its prison! Do not mock me:
If thou dost juggle now, I ll tear thee-Hold!
Ay, I remember thee; and, as I peruse thee,
Past times rush in upon me with thy face;
And many a thought of happiness gone by
Does flash across my brain. Let me not wander:
Give me thy hand, Roque. I do know thy errand ;
And 'tis of import, when thou journey'st thus
The trackless desert, to seek sorrow out.
Thou com'st to tell me my Floranthe's dead:
But we will meet again, sweet! I will back
With thee, old Honesty, and lay me down,
Heart-broke at last, beside her shrouded corse,
Kiss her cold cheek, then fly to her in Heaven!

Roque. [Aside.] An' this hold, I shall blubber outright, like a female baby. I must muster my own resolution, that I may rally his. [Aloud.] Why, how now, signior :-Shame on this weakness !-Were all to bend like you, when they meet disappointment, I know not who in this jostling life would walk upright. Pluck up your manly spirits, sigaior: your Floranthe lives-ay, and is true to you! Now, by Saint Dominick, I bring tidings that will glad you!

Oct. I pray you, do not sport with me, old man,
Jeer not the wretched. I have worn away
Twelve weary months in anguish : I have sat,
Darkling, by day in caverns; and, at night,
Have fixed my eyes so long upon
the moon,
That I do fear my senses are in part
Swayed by her influence. I'm past jesting with.

Roque. I never, signior, was much given to jesing; and he who sports with the misfortunes of another, though he may bring his head into repute for fancy, does his heart little credit for feeling. Rest you quiet, signior: here is one waiting without, that I have brought along with me, who will comfort you. Nay, I pray you, now, be patient. [Aside.] If this be the work of bringing lovers together, Heaven give him joy who makes a trade on't!-for, in fif

ty years that Time has clapped his saddle on my back, he never so sorely galled my old withers as now! [Exit, L. Oct. Habit does much. I do begin to think, Since grief has been so close an inmate with me, That I have strained her nearer to my bosom Than I had pressed her, had the chequered scene, Which rouses man who mixes with his kind, Kept me from dotage on her. Our affections Must have a rest! and sorrow, when secluded, Grows strong in weakness." Pen the body up "In solitary durance, and, in time, "The human soul will idly fix its fancy "E'en on some peg stuck in the prison's wall, "And sigh to quit it."

Re-enter ROQUE, L., conducting FLORANTHE-he points out Octavian, and withdraws, L.

Sure I am not mad!

Floranthe's lost; and, since my stubborn frame
Will stand the tug, I'll to the heated world,
Fit mingler in the throng miscalled society.

[A pause-he gazes on Floranthe for some time.
What art thou?-Speak!- That face-yet this attire!
Floranthe ?—No, it cannot-Oh, good Heaven!
Vex not a poor creature thus !-Floranthe!
How my sight thickens !-Speak!

Flor, Octavian!

Oct. That voice !-It is-so long, too!-Let me clasp thee!

[Runs to meet her, staggers, and falls on his face. Flor. Oh! I did fear this. My Octavian!

To see thee thus! [Calling off] Why, Roque !—Alas!

Octavian!

Revive, or thou wilt kill me !-'Tis Floranthe,—
Thy own Floranthe!

Re-enter ROQUE, L.-He assists Octavian to rise.
Oct. [Recovering.] It has chanced before
That I have dreamed this; and, when I awoke,
Big drops did stand upon my clay-cold front,
As they do now, the vision did so shake me.

'Tis there again!-Brain! brain!-Why, ay, that hand,—

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