Chapter XXVIII: Act III: SCENE I.--The Street

_Enter_ LORENZO _in a Friars Habit, meeting_ DOMINICK.

_Lor._ Father Dominick, father Dominick; why in such haste, man?

_Dom._ It should seem, a brother of our order.

_Lor._ No, faith, I am only your brother in iniquity; my holiness, like yours, is mere outside.

_Dom._ What! my noble colonel in metamorphosis! On what occasion are you transformed?

_Lor._ Love, almighty love; that, which turned Jupiter into a town-bull, has transformed me into a friar. I have had a letter from Elvira, in answer to that I sent by you.

_Dom._ You see I have delivered my message faithfully; I am a friar of honour, where I am engaged.

_Lor._ O, I understand your hint; the other fifty pieces are ready to be condemned to charity.

_Dom._ But this habit, son! this habit!

_Lor._ It is a habit, that, in all ages, has been friendly to fornication: you have begun the design in this clothing, and I'll try to accomplish it. The husband is absent, that evil counsellor is removed and the sovereign is graciously disposed to hear my grievances.

_Dom._ Go to, go to; I find good counsel is but thrown away upon you. Fare you well, fare you well, son! Ah--

_Lor._ How! will you turn recreant at the last cast? You must along to countenance my undertaking: we are at the door, man.

_Dom._ Well, I have thought on't, and I will not go.

_Lor._ You may stay, father, but no fifty pounds without it; that was only promised in the bond: "But the condition of this obligation is such, that if the above-named father, father Dominick, do not well and faithfully perform--"

_Dom._ Now I better think on't, I will bear you company; for the reverence of my presence may be a curb to your exorbitancies.

_Lor._ Lead up your myrmidons, and enter. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--ELVIRA'S _Chamber._

_Enter_ ELVIRA.

_Elv._ He'll come, that's certain; young appetites are sharp, and seldom need twice bidding to such a banquet. Well, if I prove frail,--as I hope I shall not till I have compassed my design,--never woman had such a husband to provoke her, such a lover to allure her, or such a confessor to absolve her. Of what am I afraid, then? not my conscience, that's safe enough; my ghostly father has given it a dose of church-opium, to lull it. Well, for soothing sin, I'll say that for him, he's a chaplain for any court in Christendom.

_Enter_ LORENZO _and_ DOMINICK.

O, father Dominick, what news?--How, a companion with you! What game have you in hand, that you hunt in couples?

_Lor._ [_Lifting up his Hood._] I'll shew you that immediately.

_Elv._ O, my love!

_Lor._ My life!

_Elv._ My soul! [_They embrace._

_Dom._ I am taken on the sudden with a grievous swimming in my head, and such a mist before my eyes, that I can neither hear nor see.

_Elv._ Stay, and I'll fetch you some comfortable water.

_Dom._ No, no; nothing but the open air will do me good. I'll take a turn in your garden; but remember that I trust you both, and do not wrong my good opinion of you. [_Exit_ DOMINICK.

_Elv._ This is certainly the dust of gold which you have thrown in the good man's eyes, that on the sudden he cannot see; for my mind misgives me, this sickness of his is but apocryphal.

_Lor._ 'Tis no qualm of conscience, I'll be sworn. You see, madam, it is interest governs all the world. He preaches against sin; why? because he gets by it: He holds his tongue; why? because so much more is bidden for his silence.

_Elv._ And so much for the friar.

_Lor._ Oh, those eyes of yours reproach me justly, that I neglect the subject which brought me hither.

_Elv._ Do you consider the hazard I have run to see you here? if you do, methinks it should inform you, that I love not at a common rate.

_Lor._ Nay, if you talk of considering, let us consider why we are alone. Do you think the friar left us together to tell beads? Love is a kind of penurious god, very niggardly of his opportunities: he must be watched like a hard-hearted treasurer; for he bolts out on the sudden, and, if you take him not in the nick, he vanishes in a twinkling.

_Elv._ Why do you make such haste to have done loving me? You men are all like watches, wound up for striking twelve immediately; but after you are satisfied, the very next that follows, is the solitary sound of a single--one!

_Lor._ How, madam! do you invite me to a feast, and then preach abstinence?

_Elv._ No, I invite you to a feast where the dishes are served up in order: you are for making a hasty meal, and for chopping up your entertainment, like a hungry clown. Trust my management, good colonel, and call not for your desert too soon: believe me, that which comes last, as it is the sweetest, so it cloys the soonest.

_Lor._ I perceive, madam, by your holding me at this distance, that there is somewhat you expect from me: what am I to undertake, or suffer, ere I can be happy?

_Elv._ I must first be satisfied, that you love me.

_Lor._ By all that's holy! by these dear eyes!--

_Elv._ Spare your oaths and protestations; I know you gallants of the time have a mint at your tongue's end to coin them.

_Lor._ You know you cannot marry me; but, by heavens, if you were in a condition--

_Elv._ Then you would not be so prodigal of your promises, but have the fear of matrimony before your eyes. In few words, if you love me, as you profess, deliver me from this bondage, take me out of Egypt, and I'll wander with you as far as earth, and seas, and love, can carry us.

_Lor._ I never was out at a mad frolic, though this is the maddest I ever undertook. Have with you, lady mine; I take you at your word; and if you are for a merry jaunt, I'll try for once who can foot it farthest. There are hedges in summer, and barns in winter, to be found; I with my knapsack, and you with your bottle at your back: we will leave honour to madmen, and riches to knaves; and travel till we come to' the ridge of the world, and then drop together into the next.

_Elv._ Give me your hand, and strike a bargain.
[_He takes her hand, and kisses it._

_Lor._ In sign and token whereof, the parties interchangeably, and so forth.--When should I be weary of sealing upon this soft wax?

_Elv._ O heavens! I hear my husband's voice.

_Enter_ GOMEZ.

_Gom._ Where are you, gentlewoman? there's something in the wind, I'm sure, because your woman would have run up stairs before me; but I have secured her below, with a gag in her chaps.--Now, in the devil's name, what makes this friar here again? I do not like these frequent conjunctions of the flesh and spirit; they are boding.

_Elv._ Go hence, good father; my husband, you see, is in an ill humour, and I would not have you witness of his folly. [LORENZO _going._

_Gom._ [_Running to the door._] By your reverence's favour, hold a little; I must examine you something better, before you go.--Heyday! who have we here? Father Dominick is shrunk in the wetting two yards and a half about the belly. What are become of those two timber logs, that he used to wear for legs, that stood strutting like the two black posts before a door? I am afraid some bad body has been setting him over a fire in a great cauldron, and boiled him down half the quantity, for a recipe. This is no father Dominick, no huge overgrown abbey-lubber; this is but a diminutive sucking friar. As sure as a gun, now, father Dominick has been spawning this young slender anti-christ.

_Elv._ He will be found, there's no prevention. [_Aside._

_Gom._ Why does he not speak? What! is the friar possessed with a dumb devil? if he be, I shall make bold to conjure him.

_Elv._ He is but a novice in his order, and is enjoined silence for a penance.

_Gom._ A novice, quotha! you would make a novice of me, too, if you could. But what was his business here? answer me that, gentlewoman, answer me that.

_Elv._ What should it be, but to give me some spiritual instructions.

_Gom._ Very good; and you are like to edify much from a dumb preacher. This will not pass, I must examine the contents of him a little closer.--O thou confessor, confess who thou art, or thou art no friar of this world!--[_He comes to_ LORENZO, _who struggles with him; his Habit flies open, and discovers a Sword;_ GOMEZ _starts back._]--As I live, this is a manifest member of the church militant.

_Lor._ [_Aside._] I am discovered; now, impudence be my refuge.--Yes, faith, 'tis I, honest Gomez; thou seest I use thee like a friend; this is a familiar visit.

_Gom._ What! colonel Hernando turned a friar! who could have suspected you of so much godliness?

_Lor._ Even as thou seest, I make bold here.

_Gom._ A very frank manner of proceeding; but I do not wonder at your visit, after so friendly an invitation as I made you. Marry, I hope you will excuse the blunderbusses for not being in readiness to salute you; but let me know your hour, and all shall be mended another time.

_Lor._ Hang it, I hate such ripping up of old unkindness: I was upon the frolic this evening, and came to visit thee in masquerade.

_Gom._ Very likely; and not finding me at home, you were forced to toy away an hour with my wife, or so.

_Lor._ Right; thou speak'st my very soul.

_Gom._ Why, am not I a friend, then, to help thee out? you would have been fumbling half an hour for this excuse. But, as I remember, you promised to storm my citadel, and bring your regiment of red locusts upon me for free quarters: I find, colonel, by your habit, there are black locusts in the world, as well as red.

_Elv._ When comes my share of the reckoning to be called for?
[_Aside._

_Lor._ Give me thy hand; thou art the honestest, kind man!--I was resolved I would not out of thy house till I had seen thee.

_Gom._ No, in my conscience, if I had staid abroad till midnight. But, colonel, you and I shall talk in another tone hereafter; I mean, in cold friendship, at a bar before a judge, by the way of plaintiff and defendant. Your excuses want some grains to make them current: Hum, and ha, will not do the business.--There's a modest lady of your acquaintance, she has so much grace to make none at all, but silently to confess the power of dame Nature working in her body to youthful appetite.

_Elv._ How he got in I know not, unless it were by virtue of his habit.

_Gom._ Ay, ay, the virtues of that habit are known abundantly.

_Elv._ I could not hinder his entrance, for he took me unprovided.

_Gom._ To resist him.

_Elv._ I'm sure he has not been here above a quarter of an hour.

_Gom._ And a quarter of that time would have served the turn. O thou epitome of thy virtuous sex! Madam Messalina the second, retire to thy apartment: I have an assignation there to make with thee.

_Elv._ I am all obedience. [_Exit_ ELVIRA.

_Lor._ I find, Gomez, you are not the man I thought you. We may meet before we come to the bar, we may; and our differences may be decided by other weapons than by lawyers' tongues. In the mean time, no ill treatment of your wife, as you hope to die a natural death, and go to hell in your bed. Bilbo is the word, remember that and tremble.-- [_He's going out._

_Enter_ DOMINICK.

_Dom._ Where is this naughty couple? where are you, in the name of goodness? My mind misgave me, and I durst trust you no longer with yourselves: Here will be fine work, I'm afraid, at your next confession.

_Lor._ [_Aside._] The devil is punctual, I see; he has paid me the shame he owed me; and now the friar is coming in for his part too.

_Dom._ [_Seeing_ GOM.] Bless my eyes! what do I see?

_Gom._ Why, you see a cuckold of this honest gentleman's making; I thank him for his pains.

_Dom._ I confess, I am astonished!

_Gom._ What, at a cuckoldom of your own contrivance! your head-piece, and his limbs, have done my business. Nay, do not look so strangely; remember your own words,--Here will be fine work at your next confession. What naughty couple were they whom you durst not trust together any longer?--when the hypocritical rogue had trusted them a full quarter of an hour;--and, by the way, horns will sprout in less time than mushrooms.

_Dom._ Beware how you accuse one of my order upon light suspicions. The naughty couple, that I meant, were your wife and you, whom I left together with great animosities on both sides. Now, that was the occasion,--mark me, Gomez,--that I thought it convenient to return again, and not to trust your enraged spirits too long together. You might have broken out into revilings and matrimonial warfare, which are sins; and new sins make work for new confessions.

_Lor._ Well said, i'faith, friar; thou art come off thyself, but poor I am left in limbo. [_Aside._

_Gom._ Angle in some other ford, good father, you shall catch no gudgeons here. Look upon the prisoner at the bar, friar, and inform the court what you know concerning him; he is arraigned here by the name of colonel Hernando.

_Dom._ What colonel do you mean, Gomez? I see no man but a reverend brother of our order, whose profession I honour, but whose person I know not, as I hope for paradise.

_Gom._ No, you are not acquainted with him, the more's the pity; you do not know him, under this disguise, for the greatest cuckold-maker in all Spain.

_Dom._ O impudence! O rogue! O villain! Nay, if he be such a man, my righteous spirit rises at him! Does he put on holy garments, for a cover-shame of lewdness?

_Gom._ Yes, and he's in the right on't, father: when a swinging sin is to be committed, nothing will cover it so close as a friar's hood; for there the devil plays at bo-peep,--puts out his horns to do a mischief, and then shrinks them back for safety, like a snail into her shell.

_Lor._ It's best marching off, while I can retreat with honour. There's no trusting this friar's conscience; he has renounced me already more heartily than e'er he did the devil, and is in a fair way to prosecute me for putting on these holy robes. This is the old church-trick; the clergy is ever at the bottom of the plot, but they are wise enough to slip their own necks out of the collar, and leave the laity to be fairly hanged for it. [_Aside and exit._

_Gom._ Follow your leader, friar; your colonel is trooped off, but he had not gone so easily, if I durst have trusted you in the house behind me. Gather up your gouty legs, I say, and rid my house of that huge body of divinity.

_Dom._ I expect some judgment should fall upon you, for your want of reverence to your spiritual director: Slander, covetousness, and jealousy, will weigh thee down.

_Gom._ Put pride, hypocrisy, and gluttony into your scale, father, and you shall weigh against me: Nay, an sins come to be divided once, the clergy puts in for nine parts, and scarce leaves the laity a tithe.

_Dom._ How dar'st thou reproach the tribe of Levi?

_Gom._ Marry, because you make us laymen of the tribe of Issachar. You make asses of us, to bear your burthens. When we are young, you put panniers upon us with your church-discipline; and when we are grown up, you load us with a wife: after that, you procure for other men, and then you load our wives too. A fine phrase you have amongst you to draw us into marriage, you call it--_settling of a man;_ just as when a fellow has got a sound knock upon the head, they say--_he's settled:_ Marriage is a settling-blow indeed. They say every thing in the world is good for something; as a toad, to suck up the venom of the earth; but I never knew what a friar was good for, till your pimping shewed me.

_Dom._ Thou shalt answer for this, thou slanderer; thy offences be upon thy head.

_Gom._ I believe there are some offences there of your planting. [_Exit_ DOM.] Lord, Lord, that men should have sense enough to set snares in their warrens to catch polecats and foxes, and yet-- Want wit a priest-trap at their door to lay, For holy vermin that in houses prey. [_Exit_ GOM.

SCENE III.--_A Bed Chamber._

LEONORA, _and_ TERESA.

_Ter._ You are not what you were, since yesterday; Your food forsakes you, and your needful rest; You pine, you languish, love to be alone; Think much, speak little, and, in speaking, sigh: When you see Torrismond, you are unquiet; But, when you see him not, you are in pain.

_Leo._ O let them never love, who never tried! They brought a paper to me to be signed; Thinking on him, I quite forgot my name, And writ, for Leonora, Torrismond. I went to bed, and to myself I thought That I would think on Torrismond no more; Then shut my eyes, but could not shut out him. I turned, and tried each corner of my bed, To find if sleep were there, but sleep was lost. Fev'rish, for want of rest, I rose, and walked, And, by the moon-shine, to the windows went; There, thinking to exclude him from my thoughts, I cast my eyes upon the neighbouring fields, And, ere I was aware, sighed to myself,-- There fought my Torrismond.

_Ter._ What hinders you to take the man you love? The people will be glad, the soldiers shout, And Bertran, though repining, will be awed.

_Leo._ I fear to try new love, As boys to venture on the unknown ice, That crackles underneath them while they slide. Oh, how shall I describe this growing ill! Betwixt my doubt and love, methinks I stand Altering, like one that waits an ague fit; And yet, would this were all!

_Ter._ What fear you more?

_Leo._ I am ashamed to say, 'tis but a fancy. At break of day, when dreams, they say, are true, A drowzy slumber, rather than a sleep, Seized on my senses, with long watching worn: Methought I stood on a wide river's bank, Which I must needs o'erpass, but knew not how; When, on a sudden, Torrismond appeared, Gave me his hand, and led me lightly o'er, Leaping and bounding on the billows' heads, 'Till safely we had reached the farther shore.

_Ter._ This dream portends some ill which you shall 'scape. Would you see fairer visions, take this night Your Torrismond within your arms to sleep; And, to that end, invent some apt pretence To break with Bertran: 'twould be better yet, Could you provoke him to give you the occasion, And then, to throw him off.

_Enter_ BERTRAN _at a distance._

_Leo._ My stars have sent him; For, see, he comes. How gloomily he looks! If he, as I suspect, have found my love, His jealousy will furnish him with fury, And me with means, to part.

_Bert._ [_Aside._] Shall I upbraid her? Shall I call her false? If she be false, 'tis what she most desires. My genius whispers me,--Be cautious, Bertran! Thou walkest as on a narrow mountain's neck, A dreadful height, with scanty room to tread.

_Leo._ What business have you at the court, my lord?

_Bert._ What business, madam?

_Leo._ Yes, my lord, what business? 'Tis somewhat, sure, of weighty consequence, That brings you here so often, and unsent for.

_Bert._ 'Tis what I feared; her words are cold enough, To freeze a man to death. [_Aside._]--May I presume To speak, and to complain?

_Leo._ They, who complain to princes, think them tame: What bull dares bellow, or what sheep dares bleat, Within the lion's den?

_Bert._ Yet men are suffered to put heaven in mind Of promised blessings; for they then are debts.

_Leo._ My lord, heaven knows its own time when to give; But you, it seems, charge me with breach of faith!

_Bert._ I hope I need not, madam; But as, when men in sickness lingering lie, They count the tedious hours by months and years,-- So, every day deferred, to dying lovers, Is a whole age of pain!

_Leo._ What if I ne'er consent to make you mine? My father's promise ties me not to time; And bonds, without a date, they say, are void.

_Bert._ Far be it from me to believe you bound; Love is the freest motion of our minds: O could you see into my secret soul, There might you read your own dominion doubled, Both as a queen and mistress. If you leave me, Know I can die, but dare not be displeased.

_Leo._ Sure you affect stupidity, my lord; Or give me cause to think, that, when you lost Three battles to the Moors, you coldly stood As unconcerned as now.

_Bert._ I did my best; Fate was not in my power.

_Leo._ And, with the like tame gravity, you saw A raw young warrior take your baffled work, And end it at a blow.

_Bert._ I humbly take my leave; but they, who blast Your good opinion of me, may have cause To know, I am no coward. [_He is going._

_Leo._ Bertran, stay. [_Aside._] This may produce some dismal consequence To him, whom dearer than my life I love. [_To him._] Have I not managed my contrivance well, To try your love, and make you doubt of mine?

_Bert._ Then, was it but a trial? Methinks I start as from some dreadful dream, And often ask myself if yet I wake.-- This turn's too quick to be without design; I'll sound the bottom of't, ere I believe. [_Aside._

_Leo._ I find your love, and would reward it too, But anxious fears solicit my weak breast. I fear my people's faith; That hot-mouthed beast, that bears against the curb, Hard to be broken even by lawful kings, But harder by usurpers. Judge then, my lord, with all these cares opprest, If I can think of love.

_Bert._ Believe me, madam, These jealousies, however large they spread, Have but one root, the old imprisoned king; Whose lenity first pleased the gaping crowd; But when long tried, and found supinely good, Like Æsop's Log, they leapt upon his back. Your father knew them well; and, when he mounted, He reined them strongly, and he spurred them hard: And, but he durst not do it all at once, He had not left alive this patient saint, This anvil of affronts, but sent him hence To hold a peaceful branch of palm above, And hymn it in the quire.

_Leo._ You've hit upon the very string, which, touched. Echoes the sound, and jars within my soul;-- There lies my grief.

_Bert._ So long as there's a head, Thither will all the mounting spirits fly; Lop that but off, and then--

_Leo._ My virtue shrinks from such an horrid act.

_Bert._ This 'tis to have a virtue out of season. Mercy is good, a very good dull virtue; But kings mistake its timing, and are mild, When manly courage bids them be severe: Better be cruel once, than anxious ever. Remove this threatening danger from your crown, And then securely take the man you love.

_Leo._ [_Walking aside._] Ha! let me think of that:--The man I love? 'Tis true, this murder is the only means, That can secure my throne to Torrismond: Nay, more, this execution, done by Bertran, Makes him the object of the people's hate.

_Bert._ The more she thinks, 'twill work the stronger in her.
[_Aside._

_Leo._ How eloquent is mischief to persuade! Few are so wicked, as to take delight In crimes unprofitable, nor do I: If then I break divine and human laws, No bribe but love could gain so bad a cause. [_Aside._

_Bert._ You answer nothing.

_Leo._ 'Tis of deep concernment, And I a woman, ignorant and weak: I leave it all to you; think, what you do, You do for him I love.

_Bert._ For him she loves? She named not me; that may be Torrismond, Whom she has thrice in private seen this day; Then I am fairly caught in my own snare. I'll think again. [_Aside._]--Madam, it shall be done; And mine be all the blame. [_Exit._

_Leo._ O, that it were! I would not do this crime, And yet, like heaven, permit it to be done. The priesthood grossly cheat us with free-will: Will to do what--but what heaven first decreed? Our actions then are neither good nor ill, Since from eternal causes they proceed; Our passions,--fear and anger, love and hate,-- Mere senseless engines that are moved by fate; Like ships on stormy seas, without a guide, Tost by the winds, and driven by the tide.

_Enter_ TORRISMOND.

_Tor._ Am I not rudely bold, and press too often Into your presence, madam? If I am--

_Leo._ No more, lest I should chide you for your stay: Where have you been? and how could you suppose, That I could live these two long hours without you?

_Tor._ O words, to charm an angel from his orb! Welcome, as kindly showers to long-parched earth! But I have been in such a dismal place, Where joy ne'er enters, which the sun ne'er cheers, Bound in with darkness, overspread with damps; Where I have seen (if I could say I saw) The good old king, majestic in his bonds, And, 'midst his griefs, most venerably great: By a dim winking lamp, which feebly broke The gloomy vapours, he lay stretched along Upon the unwholesome earth, his eyes fixed upward; And ever and anon a silent tear Stole down, and trickled from his hoary beard.

_Leo._ O heaven, what have I done!--my gentle love, Here end thy sad discourse, and, for my sake, Cast off these fearful melancholy thoughts.

_Tor._ My heart is withered at that piteous sight, As early blossoms are with eastern blasts: He sent for me, and, while I raised his head, He threw his aged arms about my neck; And, seeing that I wept, he pressed me close: So, leaning cheek to cheek, and eyes to eyes, We mingled tears in a dumb scene of sorrow.

_Leo._ Forbear; you know not how you wound my soul.

_Tor._ Can you have grief, and not have pity too? He told me,--when my father did return, He had a wond'rous secret to disclose: He kissed me, blessed me, nay--he called me son; He praised my courage; prayed for my success: He was so true a father of his country, To thank me, for defending even his foes, Because they were his subjects.

_Leo._ If they be,--then what am I?

_Tor._ The sovereign of my soul, my earthly heaven.

_Leo._ And not your queen?

_Tor._ You are so beautiful, So wond'rous fair, you justify rebellion; As if that faultless face could make no sin, But heaven, with looking on it, must forgive.

_Leo._ The king must die,--he must, my Torrismond, Though pity softly plead within my soul; Yet he must die, that I may make you great, And give a crown in dowry with my love.

_Tor._ Perish that crown--on any head but yours! O, recollect your thoughts! Shake not his hour-glass, when his hasty sand Is ebbing to the last: A little longer, yet a little longer, And nature drops him down, without your sin; Like mellow fruit, without a winter storm.

_Leo._ Let me but do this one injustice more. His doom is past, and, for your sake, he dies.

_Tor._ Would you, for me, have done so ill an act, And will not do a good one! Now, by your joys on earth, your hopes in heaven, O spare this great, this good, this aged king; And spare your soul the crime!

_Leo._ The crime's not mine; 'Twas first proposed, and must be done, by Bertran, Fed with false hopes to gain my crown and me; I, to enhance his ruin, gave no leave, But barely bade him think, and then resolve.

_Tor._ In not forbidding, you command the crime: Think, timely think, on the last dreadful day; How will you tremble, there to stand exposed, And foremost, in the rank of guilty ghosts, That must be doomed for murder! think on murder: That troop is placed apart from common crimes; The damned themselves start wide, and shun that band, As far more black, and more forlorn than they.

_Leo._ 'Tis terrible! it shakes, it staggers me; I knew this truth, but I repelled that thought. Sure there is none, but fears a future state; And, when the most obdurate swear they do not, Their trembling hearts belie their boasting tongues.

_Enter_ TERESA.

Send speedily to Bertran; charge him strictly Not to proceed, but wait my farther pleasure.

_Ter._ Madam, he sends to tell you, 'tis performed. [_Exit._

_Tor._ Ten thousand plagues consume him! furies drag him, Fiends tear him! blasted be the arm that struck, The tongue that ordered!--only she be spared, That hindered not the deed! O, where was then The power, that guards the sacred lives of kings? Why slept the lightning and the thunder-bolts, Or bent their idle rage on fields and trees, When vengeance called them here?

_Leo._ Sleep that thought too; 'Tis done, and, since 'tis done, 'tis past recal; And, since 'tis past recal, must be forgotten.

_Tor._ O, never, never, shall it be forgotten! High heaven will not forget it; after-ages Shall with a fearful curse remember ours; And blood shall never leave the nation more!

_Leo._ His body shall be royally interred, And the last funeral-pomps adorn his hearse; I will myself (as I have cause too just,) Be the chief mourner at his obsequies; And yearly fix on the revolving day The solemn marks of mourning, to atone, And expiate my offence.

_Tor._ Nothing can, But bloody vengeance on that traitor's head,-- Which, dear departed spirit, here I vow.

_Leo._ Here end our sorrows, and begin our joys: Love calls, my Torrismond; though hate has raged, And ruled the day, yet love will rule the night. The spiteful stars have shed their venom down, And now the peaceful planets take their turn. This deed of Bertran's has removed all fears, And given me just occasion to refuse him. What hinders now, but that the holy priest In secret join our mutual vows? and then This night, this happy night, is yours and mine.

_Tor._ Be still my sorrows, and be loud my joys. Fly to the utmost circles of the sea, Thou furious tempest, that hast tossed my mind, And leave no thought, but Leonora there.-- What's this I feel, a boding in my soul, As if this day were fatal? be it so; Fate shall but have the leavings of my love: My joys are gloomy, but withal are great. The lion, though he sees the toils are set, Yet, pinched with raging hunger, scowers away, Hunts in the face of danger all the day; At night, with sullen pleasure, grumbles o'er his prey. [_Exeunt._