And hear, amid the rending tackle's roar,
The spirit of an equinoctial gale.
What, though a patient and enduring lover-
Like a tame spaniel, that, with crouching eye,
Meets buffets, and caresses-I have ta'en,
With humble thanks, her kindness and her scorn;
Yet, when I am her husband, she shall feel
I was not born to be a woman's slave!

Can you be secret?\

Count. You have found me so

In matters of some moment.

Duke. Listen, then:

I have prepar'd a penance for her pride,
To which a cell and sackcloth, and the toils
Of a barefooted pilgrimage, were pastime.
As yet she knows me, as I truly am,
The Duke Aranza: in which character
I have fed high her proud and soaring fancy
With the description of my state and fortunes,
My princely mansions, my delicious gardens,
My carriages, my servants, and my pomp.
Now, mark the contrast. In the very height
And fullest pride of her ambitious hopes,
I take her to a miserable hut,

(All things are well digested for the purpose),
Where, throwing off the title of a duke,
I will appear to her a low-born peasant.
There, with coarse raiment, household drudgery,
Laborious exercise, and cooling viands,
I will so lower her distempered blood,
And tame the devil in her, that, before
We have burnt out our happy honey-moon,

She, like a well-train'd hawk, shall, at my whistle,
Quit her high flights, and perch upon my finger,
To wait my bidding.

Count. Most excellent! A plot of rare invention! Duke. When, with a bold hand, I have weeded out

The rank growth of her pride, she'll be a garden
Lovely in blossom, rich in fruit; till then,
An unprun'd wilderness. But to your business.
How thrives your suit with her fair sister, Count?
Count. The best advancement I can boast of in it
Is, that it goes not backward. She's a riddle,
Which he that solved the sphinx's, would die
f I but mention love, she starts away, [guessing.
And wards the subject off with so much skill,
That whether she be hurt or tickled most,
Her looks leave doubtful. Yet I fondly think
She keeps me (as the plover from her nest,
Fearful, misleads the trav'ller) from the point
Where live her warmest wishes, that are breath'd
For me in secret.

Duke. You've her father's voice?

Count. Yes; and we have concerted, that this Instead of Friar Dominic, her confessor, [evening, Who from his pious office is disabled By sudden sickness, I should visit her; And, as her mind's physician feel the pulse Of her affection.

Duke. May you quickly find

Her love to you the worst of her offences!
For then her absolution will be certain.
Farewell! I see Rolando.

He is a common railer against women;
And, on my wedding day, I will hear none
Blaspheme the sex. Besides, as once he fail'd
In the same suit that I have thriven in,
"Twill look like triumph. 'Tis a grievous pity
He follows them with such a settled spleen,
For he has noble qualities.

Count. Most rare ones

A happy wit, and independent spirit.

Duke. And then he is a brave, too.

1 marvel much they suffer them to walk
Loose in the streets, whilst other untam'd monsters
Are kept in cages-three lond talking women!
They were discoursing of the newest fashions,
And their tongues went like-I have since been
thinking,

What most that active member of a woman
Of mortal things resembles.

Count. Have you found it?

[smoke-jack!

Rol. Umph! not exactly-something like a For it goes ever without winding up:

But that wears out in time-thereails the simile.
Next I be thought me of a water-mill;
But that stands still on Sundays; woman's tongue
Needs no reviving sabbath-and besides,
A mill, to give it motion, waits for grist;
Now, whether she has aught to say or no,
A woman's tongue will go for exercise.
In short, I came to this conclusion:
Most earthly things have their similitudes,
But a woman's tongue is yet incomparable,➡
Was't not the duke that left you?

Count. 'Twas.

Rol. He saw me, And hurried off!

Count. Ay! 'twas most wise in him,
To shun the bitter flowing of your gall.
You know he's on the brink of matrimony.

Rol. Why now, in reason, what can he expect? To marry such a woman!

A thing so closely pack'd with her own pride,
She has no room for any thought of him.
Why, she ne'er threw a word of kindness at him,
But when she quarrell'd with her monkey. Then,
As he with nightly minstrelsy dol'd out
A lying ballad to her peerless beauty,
Unto his whining lute, and, at each turn,
Sigh'd like a paviour, the kind lady, sir,
Would lift the casement up-to laugh at him,
And vanish like a shooting star; whilst he
Stood gazing on the spot whence she departed:
Then, stealing home, went supperless to bed,
And fed all night upon her apparition.
Now, rather than espouse a thing like this,
I'd wed a bear that never learnt to dance,
Though her first hug were mortal.

Count. Peace, Rolando!

You rail at women as priests cry down pleasure;
Who, for the penance which they do their tongues,
Give ample licence to their appetites.

Come, come, however you may mask your nature,
I know the secret pulses of your heart
Beat towards them still. A woman hater! Pshaw!
A young and handsome fellow, and a brave one →
Rol. Go on.

Count. Had I a sister, mother, nay, my grandam,
I'd no more trust her in a corner with thee,
Than cream within the whiskers of a cat.
Rol. Right! I should beat her. You are very
I have a sneaking kindness for the sex; [right,
And, could I meet a reasonable woman,
Fair without vanity, rich without pride,

Discreet though witty, learn'd, yet very humble;
That has no ear for flattery, no tongue
For scandal: one who never reads romances;
Who loves to listen better than to talk,
And rather than be gadding would sit quiet:
Hates cards and cordials, goes ill-dress'd
church;-

I'd marry certainly. You shall find two such,
And we'll both wed together.

Count. You are merry.

Where shall we dine together?
Rol. Not to-day.

Count. Nay, I insist.

Rol. Where shall I meet you, then? Count. Here, at the Mermaid,

Rol. I don't like the sign; A mermaid is half woman.

Count. Pshaw, Rolando!

You strain this humour beyond sense or measure.
Rol. Well, on condition that we're very private,
And that we drink no toast that's feminine,
I'll waste some time with you.

Count. Agreed.

Enter ZAMORA, disguised.

Rol. Go on, then;

I will but give directions to my page,
And follow you.

Count. A pretty smooth-fac'd boy:

Rol. The lad is handsome, and for one so youngSave that his heart will flutter at a drum,

And he would rather eat his sword than draw it-
He is the noblest youth in Christendom,
The kindest and most gentle. Talk of woman!
Not all the rarest virtues of the sex,

If any cunning chemist could compound them,
Would make a tythe of his. When before Tunis
I got well scratch'd for leaping on the walls
Too nimbly, that same boy attended me,
"Twould bring an honest tear into thine eye,
To tell thee how, for ten days, without sleep,
And almost nourishment, he waited on me;
Cheer'd the dull time, by reading merry tales;
And when my festering body smarted most,
Sweeter than a fond mother's lullaby
Over her peevish child, he sung to me,
That the soft cadence of his dying tones
Dropp'd like an oily balsam on my wounds,

And breath'd an healing influence throughout me.
But this is womanish! Order our dinner,
And I'll be with you presently.

Count. I will not fail.

ZAMORA comes forward.

[Exit Count.

Rol. The wars are ended, boy.

Zam. I'm glad of that, sir.

Rol. Pshaw, those tears!

Well, well, we'll talk of this some other day.
I dine with Count Montalban at the Mermaid;
In the mean time, go, and amuse yourself
With what is worthiest note in that fam'd city.
But hark, Eugenio! 'Tis a wicked place;
You'll meet (for they are weeds of ev'ry soil)
Abundance here of-women; kept aloof!
For they are like the smooth, but brittle ice,
That tempts th' unpractis'd urchin to his ruin.
Keep aloof, boy! keep aloof!

They are like comets, to be wonder'd at,
But not approach'd. Go not within their reach.
[Exit Rolando,

Zam. Doubt me not, sir.

What a hard fate is mine! to follow thus
With love a gentleman that scorns my sex,
And swears no great or noble quality
Ever yet liv'd in woman! When I read to him
The story of Lucretia, or of Portia,

Or other glorious dame, or some rare virgin, [ter,
Who, cross'd in love, has died, 'mid peals of laugh-
He praises the invention of the writer;
Or, growing angry, bids me shut the book,
Nor with such dull lies wear his patience out.
What opposition has a maid like me

To turn the headstrong current of his spleen!
For though he sets off with a lavish tongue
My humble merits, thinking me a boy,
Yet, should I stand before his jaundic'd sight
A woman, all that now is fair in me
Might turn to ugliness; all that is good
Appear the smooth gloss of hypocrisy:
Yet, I must venture the discovery,

Though, 'tis a fearful hazard. This perplexity
Of hopes and fears makes up too sad a life;
I will or lose him quite or be his wife.
SCENE II-A Room in Balthazar's House.
Enter VOLANTE and BALTHAZAR.

Balth. Not yet apparell'd?

Vol. 'Tis her wedding-day, sir:

On such occasions women claim some grace.
Balth. How bears she

The coming of her greatness?

Vol. Bravely, sir.

Instead of the high honours that await her,

Zam. Then I am very sorry.

Rol. We must part, boy!

Zam. Part?

Rol. I am serious.

Zam. Nay, you cannot mean it.

Have I been idle, sir, or negligent?
Saucy I'm sure I have not. If aught else,
It is my first fault; chide me gently for it
Nay heavily; but do not say, we part!

Rol. I'm a disbanded soldier, without pay;
Fit only now with rusty swords and helmets
To hang up in the armoury, till the wars
New-burnish me again; so poor, indeed,
I can but leanly cater for myself,
Much less provide for thee.

Zam. Let not that

Divide us, sir; thought of how I far'd Never yet troubled me, and shall not now. Indeed, I never follow'd you for hire,

[Exil

She would become her coronation:
For, when she has adjusted some stray lock,
Or fix'd at last some sparkling ornament,
She views her beauty with collected pride,
Musters her whole soul in her eyes, and says,
"Look I not like an empress ?" But, she comes.
Enter JULIANA, in her wedding dress.
Jul. Well, sir, what think you? do I to the life
Appear a duchess, or will the people say,
She does but poorly play a part which nature
Never design'd her for? But, where's the duke?
Balth. Not come yet.

Jul. How! not come? the duke not come!
Vol. Patience, sweet sister; oft without a mur
It has been his delight to wait for you.

[friends,

Vol. Keep all the keys, and when he bids his Mete out a modicum of wine to each. Had you not better put him on a livery At once, and let him stand behind your chair? Why, I would rather wed a man of dough, Such as some spinster, when the pie is made, To amuse her childish fancy, kneads at hazard Out of the remnant paste-a paper man, Cut by a baby. Heavens preserve me ever From that dull blessing-an obedient husband! Jul. And make you an obedient wife! a thing

For lordly man to vent his humours on;
A dull domestic drudge. To be abus'd
Or fondled as the fit may work upon him:
"If you think so, my dear;" and, "As you please;"
And, "You know best;" even when he nothing
knows.

I have no patience-that a free-born woman
Should sink the high tone of her noble nature
Down to a slavish whisper, for that compound
Of frail mortality they call a man,

And give her charter up to make a tyrant!
Balth. You talk it most heroically. Pride
May be a proper bait to catch a lover,
But, trust me daughter, 'twill not hold a husband.
Jul. Leave that to me. And what should I have
If I had fish'd with your humility?
Some pert apprentice, or rich citizen.

[caught
[man,
Who would have bought me? Some poor gentle-
Whose high patrician blood would have descended
To wed a painter's daughter, and-her ducats.
I felt my value, and still kept aloof;
Nor stoop'd my eye till I had met the man,
Pick'd from all Spain, to be my husband, girl:
And him I have so manag'd, that he feels
I have conferr'd an honour on his house,
By coyly condescending to be his.

Balth. He comes.

Vol. Smooth your brow, sister. Jul. For a man!

(Knocking.)

He must be one not made of mortal clay, then.
Enter DUKE OF ARANZA and two Attendants.
Oh! you are come, sir? I have waited for you!
Is this your gallantry? at such a time, too?
Duke. I do entreat your pardon-if you knew
The pressing cause-

Vol. Let me entreat for him.
Balth. Come, girl, be kind.

Jul. Well, sir, you are forgiven.

Duke. You are all goodness; let me on this hand(Taking her hand, which she withdraws) Jul. Not yet, sir; 'tis a virgin hand as yet, And my own property: forbear awhile, And, with this humble person, 'twill be yours. Duke. Exquisite modesty! Come, let us on! All things are waiting for the ceremony; And, till you grace it, Hymen's wasting torch Burns dim and sickly. Come, my Juliana.

ACT II.

SCENE I-A Cottage.

[Exeunt.

Enter DUKE OF ARANZA, leading in Juliana. Duke. You are welcome home.

Jul. Home! you are merry; this retired spot Would be a palace for an owl!

Young, nor ill-favour'd. Should not that content you?

I am your husband, and that must content you.
Jul. I will go home!

(Going.) (Staying her.)

Duke. You are at home, already.
Jul. I'll not endure it! But, remember this—
Duke, or no duke, I'll be a duchess, sir!

Duke. A duchess! you shall be queen, to all
Who, of their courtesy, will call you so.
Jul. And I will have attendance.
Duke. So you shall,

When you have learnt to wait upon yourself
Jul. To wait upon myself! must I bear this?
I could tear out my eyes, that bade you woo me,
And bite my tongue in two, for saying yes!

Duke. And if you should, 'twould grow again.

I think, to be an honest yeoman's wife

(For such, my would-be duchess, you will find You were cut out by nature.

Jul. You will find then,

That education, sir, has spoilt me for it. Why! do you think I'll work?

Duke. I think 'twill happen, wife.

Jul. What! rub and scrub

Your noble palace clean?

Duke. Those taper fingers

Will do it daintily.

Jul. And dress your victuals

(If there be any)? Oh! I could go mad.

[me,)

Duke. Nay not so;

But you must keep your bounds.

Ju'. And if I break them,

Perhaps you'll beat me.

Duke. Beat you!

The man, that lays his hand upon a woman
Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch
Whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward.
No, madam, I'll talk to you, I'll not beat you.
Jul. Well, if I may not travel to my father,
I may write to him surely! and I will-
If I can meet within your spacious dukedom
Three such unhop'd-for miracles at once,
As pens, and ink, and paper.

Duke. You will find them

In the next room. A word, before you go.
You are my wife, by ev'ry tie that's sacred;
The partner of my fortune and my bed-
Jul. Your fortune!

Duke. Peace! no fooling, idle woman!
Beneath the attesting eye of heav'n I've sworn
To love, to honour, cherish, and protect you.
No human pow'r can part us. What remains,
To fret, and worry, and torment each other, [then?
And give a keener edge to our hard fate
By sharp upbraidings, and perpetual jars ?
Or, like a loving and a patient pair,
(Wak'd from a dream of grandeur, to depend
Upon their daily labour for support),
To soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness
With sweet content, and mutual fond endearment?
Now to your chamber; write whate'er you please;
But pause before you stain the spotless paper,
With words that may inflame, but cannot heal!
Jul. Why what a patient worm you take me for!
Duke. I took you for a wife; and ere I've done,
I'll know you for a good one.

Jul. You shall know me

[anger;

For a right woman, full of her own sex;
Who, when she suffers wrong, will speak her
Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns,
By the proud reason of superior man,
To be taught patience when her swelling heart
Cries out revenge!

Duke. Why, let the flood rage on!
There is no tide in woman's wildest passion
But hath an ebb. I've broke the ice, however.
Write to her father! She may write a folio-
But if she send it! "Twill divert her spleen;
The flow of ink may save her blood letting;

[Exit.

Balth. I leave you to his guidance: And do not, with that wild wing you are wont, Fly from his questions; act as may befit The sober purpose of his visit here: And, without diminution or concealment, To his examination and free censure, Commit your actions and your private thoughts. Vol. I shall observe, sir. [Exit Balthazar. Nay, 'tis he, I'll swear! (Aside.) Count. 'Pray heaven she don't suspect пe! Well, young lady, you have heard your father's commands?

Vol. Yes and now he has left us alone, what are we to do?

Count. I am to listen, and you are to confess. Vol. What! and then you are to confess, and I am to listen? I'll take care you shall do penance though.

Count. Pshaw!

Vol. Well; but what am I to confess? Count. Your sins, daughter; your sins. Vol. What! all of them?

Count. Only the great ones.

(Aside.)

Vol. The great ones! Oh, you must learn those of my neighbours, whose business it is, like yours, to confess everybody's sins but their own. If now you would be content with a few trifling peccadilloes, I would own them to you with all the frankness of an author, who gives his reader the paltry errata of the press, but leaves him to find out all the capital blunders of the work himself.