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SCENE I.--The Sierra de Ronda.
Enter BULCAZIN MULEY, GANEM, and Moorish Soldiers,
Ganem. (R.) In truth, the men must rest, sir.
This long and hurried march has made them faint
Bulca. Here sink and rot, then!-I will on alone.
While a vile Christian steals away my daughter!
Bul. I will not, wretch, believe thee!
Thou art-Yes, Ganem-yes, I will believe thee. 'Twas all my daughter's doings; 'twas her nature's,— Her sex's wicked, wanton, subtle nature!
To fly me!
To fly her father! and so kind a father!
I pray you, be advised: think what is best
To cheer your fainting people on the march.
Unnerving you, and harassing your men,
"Bulca. Check my full passion! happy, happy fool! "Thou know'st not a fond parent's agony, 'Deserted by his loved, ungrateful child!
Oh, my Zorayda! dear, shameless girl! "Thou art delicious poison to my sense, "Most sweet, and yet most deadly. Out upon thee,
In stern and rugged justice; and affection "Would throw the weeping father on his knees, "To kiss the wound the much-wronged judge had made.” Ganem. Beseech you, sir, give order for your soldiery. Bulca. A pestilence upon thee !—Thou'rt a fiend, That grudges me my sorrow's luxury, And goad'st me when I would indulge in torture! Tell me again of what these filth endure, I'll cleave thy body downward from thy head, To teach them how to labour and be silent!
Ganem. Think, sir, it is in care alone for you
Bulca. Mad, senseless liar!
Thou gallest me past endurance, and hast pulled Thy death upon thee! [Draws his cimeter
Ganem. [Kneeling.] Oh, sir, take my life! It is not worth the keeping. I have followed you From infancy, till now, in honest zeal: 'Twould grieve me, sir, to seek another master: And, as my truth is grown displeasing to you, 'Twere best you bring my service to a close, And e'en dispatch me here at once.
Bulca. [Softened.] Why, Ganem!
I tell thee, Ganem-Psha! when we are formed,
I have a daughter-think on that, good Ganem!
Ganem. The peasant, sir,
Whom we did question at the mountain's foct,
By Mahomet, I swear, if I do hear
A single Moor bewailing the fatigue,
SCENE II.-The Outside of a Goatherd's Cottage. SADI, L., and AGNES, R., discovered before the door, c. F., at table, eating and drinking.
Sadi. Truly, eating is a mighty refreshing invention ! -This olla podrida of our friend, the goatherd's here, has a strange quality in't of raising the spirits. What is the reason on't, Agnes? I never swallowed a meal before that made me so merry.
Agnes. Out, you goose! 'tis the wine that thou hast drank. Wine, thou knowest, comforts man, makes him light of heart, Sadi.
Sadi. What an advantage 'tis to a Catholic to be able thus to cork up comfort, and carry his happiness about with him under his arm, in a flagon! Pour some of this light-heartedness down thy sweet throat, Agnes. Had I a hundred vintages of welfare, I would leave them all untapped, if thou wert not by to share them with me. [Fills and drinks. Agnes. 'Tis sufficient, Sadi. [They rise.] Thou knowest not the strength of liquor; too much on't would work to thy brain, and weaken reason.
Sadi. That must be because my skull is not yet altogether Christian: it would never happen to a regular head to grow weak with having strength crammed into it. Didst repose well here at the goatherd's, Agnes?
Agnes. Trust me, did I; but it had better pleased me had you not sat and watched in the corner of the hut, while I rested
Sadi. I could watch twenty years, like a cat, to see you sleep so sweetly. What a pretty thing it is to be near the
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 nne, 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.
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,
Sadi. Lovely as the day he was, but envious clouds
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. Pr'ythee, 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,