Produced by Delphine Lettau, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE DUENNA
A COMIC OPERA
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, NOV. 21, 1775
DON FERDINAND Mr. Mattocks.
DON JEROME Mr. Wilson.
DON ANTONIO Mr. Dubellamy.
DON CARLOS Mr. Leoni.
ISAAC MENDOZA Mr. Quick.
FATHER PAUL Mr. Mahon.
FATHER FRANCIS Mr. Fox.
FATHER AUGUSTINE Mr. Baker.
LOPEZ Mr. Wewitzer.
DONNA LOUISA Mrs. Mattocks.
DONNA CLARA Mrs. Cargill.
THE DUENNA Mrs. Green.
Masqueraders, Friars, Porter, Maid, and Servants.
SCENE—SEVILLE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—The Street before DON JEROME'S House.
Enter LOPEZ, with a dark lantern.
Lop. Past three o'clock!—Soh! a notable hour for one of my regular disposition, to be strolling like a bravo through the streets of Seville! Well, of all services, to serve a young lover is the hardest.—Not that I am an enemy to love; but my love and my master's differ strangely.—Don Ferdinand is much too gallant to eat, drink, or sleep:—now my love gives me an appetite—then I am fond of dreaming of my mistress, and I love dearly to toast her.—This cannot be done without good sleep and good liquor: hence my partiality to a feather- bed and a bottle. What a pity, now, that I have not further time, for reflections! but my master expects thee, honest Lopez, to secure his retreat from Donna Clara's window, as I guess.—[Music without.] Hey! sure, I heard music! So, so! Who have we here? Oh, Don Antonio, my master's friend, come from the masquerade, to serenade my young mistress, Donna Louisa, I suppose: so! we shall have the old gentleman up presently.—Lest he should miss his son, I had best lose no time in getting to my post. [Exit.]
Enter DON ANTONIO, with MASQUERADERS and music.
SONG.—Don Ant.
Tell me, my lute, can thy soft strain
So gently speak thy master's pain?
So softly sing, so humbly sigh,
That, though my sleeping love shall know
Who sings—who sighs below,
Her rosy slumbers shall not fly?
Thus, may some vision whisper more
Than ever I dare speak before.
I. Mas. Antonio, your mistress will never wake, while you sing so dolefully; love, like a cradled infant, is lulled by a sad melody.
Don Ant. I do not wish to disturb her rest.
I. Mas. The reason is, because you know she does not regard you enough to appear, if you awaked her.
Don Ant. Nay, then, I'll convince you. [Sings.]
The breath of morn bids hence the night,
Unveil those beauteous eyes, my fair;
For till the dawn of love is there,
I feel no day, I own no light.
DONNA LOUISA—replies from a window.
Waking, I heard thy numbers chide,
Waking, the dawn did bless my sight;
'Tis Phoebus sure that woos, I cried,
Who speaks in song, who moves in light.
DON JEROME—from a window.
What vagabonds are these I hear,
Fiddling, fluting, rhyming, ranting,
Piping, scraping, whining, canting?
Fly, scurvy minstrels, fly!
TRIO.
Don. Louisa.
Nay, prithee, father, why so rough?
Don Ant.
An humble lover I.
Don Jer.
How durst you, daughter, lend an ear
To such deceitful stuff?
Quick, from the window fly!
Don. Louisa
Adieu, Antonio!
Don Ant
Must you go?
Don. Louisa. & Don Ant.
We soon, perhaps, may meet again.
For though hard fortune is our foe,
The God of love will fight for us.
Don Jer.
Reach me the blunderbuss.
Don Ant. & Don. Louisa.
The god of love, who knows our pain—
Don Jer.
Hence, or these slugs are through your brain.
[Exeunt severally.]
SCENE II—A Piazza.
Enter DON FERDINAND and LOPEZ.
Lop. Truly, sir, I think that a little sleep once in a week or so—-
Don Ferd. Peace, fool! don't mention sleep to me.
Lop. No, no, sir, I don't mention your lowbred, vulgar, sound sleep; but I can't help thinking that a gentle slumber, or half an hour's dozing, if it were only for the novelty of the thing——
Don Ferd. Peace, booby, I say!—Oh, Clara dear, cruel disturber of my rest!
Lop. [Aside.] And of mine too.
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, to trifle with me at such a juncture as this!— now to stand on punctilios!—Love me! I don't believe she ever did.
Lop. [Aside.] Nor I either.
Don Ferd. Or is it, that her sex never know their desires for an hour together?
Lop. [Aside.] Ah, they know them oftener than they'll own them.
Don Ferd. Is there, in the world, so inconsistent a creature as Clara?
Lop. [Aside.] I could name one.
Don Ferd. Yes; the tame fool who submits to her caprice.
Lop. [Aside.]I thought he couldn't miss it.
Don Ferd. Is she not capricious, teasing, tyrannical, obstinate, perverse, absurd? ay, a wilderness of faults and follies; her looks are scorn, and her very smiles—'Sdeath! I wish I hadn't mentioned her smiles; for she does smile such beaming loveliness, such fascinating brightness—Oh, death and madness! I shall die if I lose her.
Lop. [Aside.] Oh, those damned smiles have undone all!
AIR—Don Ferd.
Could I her faults remember,
Forgetting every charm,
Soon would impartial reason
The tyrant love disarm:
But when enraged I number
Each failing of her mind,
Love still suggests each beauty,
And sees—while reason's blind.
Lop. Here comes Don Antonio, sir.
Don Ferd. Well, go you home—I shall be there presently.
Lop. Ah, those cursed smiles! [Exit.]
Enter DON ANTONIO.
Don Ferd. Antonio, Lopez tells me he left you chanting before our door—was my father waked?
Don Ant. Yes, yes; he has a singular affection for music; so I left him roaring at his barred window, like the print of Bajazet in the cage. And what brings you out so early?
Don Ferd. I believe I told you, that to-morrow was the day fixed by Don Pedro and Clara's unnatural step-mother, for her to enter a convent, in order that her brat might possess her fortune: made desperate by this, I procured a key to the door, and bribed Clara's maid to leave it unbolted; at two this morning, I entered unperceived, and stole to her chamber—I found her waking and weeping.
Don Ant. Happy Ferdinand!
Don Ferd. 'Sdeath! hear the conclusion.—I was rated as the most confident ruffian, for daring to approach her room at that hour of the night.
Don Ant. Ay, ay, this was at first.
Don Ferd. No such thing! she would not hear a word from me, but threatened to raise her mother, if I did not instantly leave her.
Don Ant. Well, but at last?
Don Ferd. At last! why I was forced to leave the house as I came in.
Don Ant. And did you do nothing to offend her?
Don Ferd. Nothing, as I hope to be saved!—I believe, I might snatch a dozen or two of kisses.
Don Ant. Was that all? well, I think, I never heard of such assurance!
Don Ferd. Zounds! I tell you I behaved with the utmost respect.
Don Ant. O Lord! I don't mean you, but in her. But, hark ye, Ferdinand, did you leave your key with them?
Don Ferd. Yes; the maid who saw me out, took it from the door.
Don Ant. Then, my life for it, her mistress elopes after you.
Don Ferd. Ay, to bless my rival, perhaps. I am in a humour to suspect everybody.—You loved her once, and thought her an angel, as I do now.
Don Ant. Yes, I loved her, till I found she wouldn't love me, and then I discovered that she hadn't a good feature in her face.
AIR.
I ne'er could any lustre see
In eyes that would not look on me;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,
But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art?
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.
Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it, grateful, press again.
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so, when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.
Besides, Ferdinand, you have full security in my love for your sister; help me there, and I can never disturb you with Clara.
Don Ferd. As far as I can, consistently with the honour of our family, you know I will; but there must be no eloping.
Don Ant. And yet, now, you would carry off Clara?
Don Ferd. Ay, that's a different case!—we never mean that others should act to our sisters and wives as we do to others'.—But, to- morrow, Clara is to be forced into a convent.
Don Ant. Well, and am not I so unfortunately circumstanced? To- morrow, your father forces Louisa to marry Isaac, the Portuguese—but come with me, and we'll devise something I warrant.
Don Ferd. I must go home.
Don Ant. Well, adieu!
Don Ferd. But, Don Antonio, if you did not love my sister, you have too much honour and friendship to supplant me with Clara—
AIR—Don Ant.
Friendship is the bond of reason;
But if beauty disapprove,
Heaven dissolves all other treason
In the heart that's true to love.
The faith which to my friend I swore,
As a civil oath I view;
But to the charms which I adore,
'Tis religion to be true. [Exit.]
Don Ferd. There is always a levity in Antonio's manner of replying to me on this subject that is very alarming.—'Sdeath, if Clara should love him after all.
SONG.
Though cause for suspicion appears,
Yet proofs of her love, too, are strong;
I'm a wretch if I'm right in my fears,
And unworthy of bliss if I'm wrong.
What heart-breaking torments from jealousy flow,
Ah! none but the jealous—the jealous can know!
When blest with the smiles of my fair,
I know not how much I adore:
Those smiles let another but share,
And I wonder I prized them no more!
Then whence can I hope a relief from my woe,
When the falser she seems, still the fonder I grow? [Exit.]
SCENE III.—A Room in DON JEROME'S House.
Enter DONNA LOUISA and DUENNA.
Don. Louisa. But, my dear Margaret, my charming Duenna, do you think we shall succeed?
Duen. I tell you again, I have no doubt on't; but it must be instantly put to the trial. Everything is prepared in your room, and for the rest we must trust to fortune.
Don. Louisa. My father's oath was, never to see me till I had consented to——
Duen. 'Twas thus I overheard him say to his friend, Don Guzman,—I will demand of her to-morrow, once for all, whether she will consent to marry Isaac Mendoza; if she hesitates, I will make a solemn oath never to see or speak to her till she returns to her duty.—These were his words.
Don. Louisa. And on his known obstinate adherence to what he has once said, you have formed this plan for my escape.—But have you secured my maid in our interest?
Duen. She is a party in the whole; but remember, if we succeed, you resign all right and title in little Isaac, the Jew, over to me.
Don. Louisa. That I do with all my soul; get him if you can, and I shall wish you joy most heartily. He is twenty times as rich as my poor Antonio.
AIR.
Thou canst not boast of fortune's store,
My love, while me they wealthy call:
But I was glad to find thee poor—
For with my heart I'd give thee all.
And then the grateful youth shall own
I loved him for himself alone.
But when his worth my hand shall gain,
No word or look of mine shall show
That I the smallest thought retain
Of what my bounty did bestow;
Yet still his grateful heart shall own
I loved him for himself alone.
Duen. I hear Don Jerome coming.—Quick, give me the last letter I brought you from Antonio—you know that is to be the ground of my dismission.—I must slip out to seal it up, as undelivered. [Exit.]
Enter DON JEROME and DON FERDINAND.
Don Jer. What, I suppose you have been serenading too! Eh, disturbing some peaceable neighbourhood with villainous catgut and lascivious piping! Out on't! you set your sister, here, a vile example; but I come to tell you, madam, that I'll suffer no more of these midnight incantations—these amorous orgies, that steal the senses in the hearing; as, they say, Egyptian embalmers serve mummies, extracting the brain through the ears. However, there's an end of your frolics.—Isaac Mendoza will be here presently, and to-morrow you shall marry him.
Don. Louisa. Never, while I have life!
Don Ferd. Indeed, sir, I wonder how you can think of such a man for a son-in-law.
Don Jer. Sir, you are very kind to favour me with your sentiments— and pray, what is your objection to him?
Don Ferd. He is a Portuguese, in the first place.
Don Jer. No such thing, boy; he has forsworn his country.
Don. Louisa. He is a Jew.
Don Jer. Another mistake: he has been a Christian these six weeks.
Don Ferd. Ay, he left his old religion for an estate, and has not had time to get a new one.
Don. Louisa. But stands like a dead wall between church and synagogue, or like the blank leaves between the Old and New Testament.
Don Jer. Anything more?
Don Ferd. But the most remarkable part of his character is his passion for deceit and tricks of cunning.
Don. Louisa. Though at the same time the fool predominates so much over the knave, that I am told he is generally the dupe of his own art.
Don Ferd. True; like an unskilful gunner, he usually misses his aim, and is hurt by the recoil of his own piece.
Don Jer. Anything more?
Don. Louisa. To sum up all, he has the worst fault a husband can have—he's not my choice.
Don Jer. But you are his; and choice on one side is sufficient—two lovers should never meet in marriage—be you sour as you please, he is sweet-tempered; and for your good fruit, there's nothing like ingrafting on a crab.
Don. Louisa. I detest him as a lover, and shall ten times more as a husband.
Don Jer. I don't know that-marriage generally makes a great change— but, to cut the matter short, will you have him or not?
Don. Louisa. There is nothing else I could disobey you in.
Don Jer. Do you value your father's peace?
Don. Louisa. So much, that I will not fasten on him the regret of making an only daughter wretched.
Don Jer. Very well, ma'am, then mark me—never more will I see or converse with you till you return to your duty—no reply—this and your chamber shall be your apartments; I never will stir out without leaving you under lock and key, and when I'm at home no creature can approach you but through my library: we'll try who can be most obstinate. Out of my sight!—there remain till you know your duty. [Pushes her out.]
Don Ferd_. Surely, sir, my sister's inclinations should be consulted in a matter of this kind, and some regard paid to Don Antonio, being my particular friend.
Don Jer. That, doubtless, is a very great recommendation!—I certainly have not paid sufficient respect to it.
Don Ferd. There is not a man living I would sooner choose for a brother-in-law.
Don Jer. Very possible; and if you happen to have e'er a sister, who is not at the same time a daughter of mine, I'm sure I shall have no objection to the relationship; but at present, if you please, we'll drop the subject.
Don Ferd. Nay, sir, 'tis only my regard for my sister makes me speak.
Don Jer. Then, pray sir, in future, let your regard for your father make you hold your tongue.
Don Ferd. I have done, sir. I shall only add a wish that you would reflect what at our age you would have felt, had you been crossed in your affection for the mother of her you are so severe to.
Don Jer. Why, I must confess I had a great affection for your mother's ducats, but that was all, boy. I married her for her fortune, and she took me in obedience to her father, and a very happy couple we were. We never expected any love from one another, and so we were never disappointed. If we grumbled a little now and then, it was soon over, for we were never fond enough to quarrel; and when the good woman died, why, why,—I had as lieve she had lived, and I wish every widower in Seville could say the same. I shall now go and get the key of this dressing-room—so, good son, if you have any lecture in support of disobedience to give your sister, it must be brief; so make the best of your time, d'ye hear? [Exit.]
Don Ferd. I fear, indeed, my friend Antonio has little to hope for; however, Louisa has firmness, and my father's anger will probably only increase her affection.—In our intercourse with the world, it is natural for us to dislike those who are innocently the cause of our distress; but in the heart's attachment a woman never likes a man with ardour till she has suffered for his sake.—[Noise.] So! what bustle is here—between my father and the Duenna too, I'll e'en get out of the way. [Exit.]
Re-enter DON JEROME with a letter, pulling in DUENNA.
Don Jer. I'm astonished! I'm thunderstruck! here's treachery with a vengeance! You, Antonio's creature, and chief manager of this plot for my daughter's eloping!—you, that I placed here as a scarecrow?
Duen. What?
Don Jer. A scarecrow—to prove a decoy-duck! What have you to say for yourself?
Duen. Well, sir, since you have forced that letter from me, and discovered my real sentiments, I scorn to renounce them.—I am Antonio's friend, and it was my intention that your daughter should have served you as all such old tyrannical sots should be served—I delight in the tender passions and would befriend all under their influence.
Don Jer. The tender passions! yes, they would become those impenetrable features! Why, thou deceitful hag! I placed thee as a guard to the rich blossoms of my daughter's beauty. I thought that dragon's front of thine would cry aloof to the sons of gallantry: steel traps and spring guns seemed writ in every wrinkle of it.—But you shall quit my house this instant. The tender passions, indeed! go, thou wanton sibyl, thou amorous woman of Endor, go!
Duen. You base, scurrilous, old—but I won't demean myself by naming what you are.—Yes, savage, I'll leave your den; but I suppose you don't mean to detain my apparel—I may have my things, I presume?
Don Jer. I took you, mistress, with your wardrobe on—what have you pilfered, eh?
Duen. Sir, I must take leave of my mistress; she has valuables of mine: besides, my cardinal and veil are in her room.
Don Jer. Your veil, forsooth! what, do you dread being gazed at? or are you afraid of your complexion? Well, go take your leave, and get your veil and cardinal! so! you quit the house within these five minutes.—In—in—quick!—[Exit DUENNA.] Here was a precious plot of mischief!—these are the comforts daughters bring us!
AIR.
If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life,
No peace shall you know, though you've buried your wife!
At twenty she mocks at the duty you taught her—
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
Sighing and whining,
Dying and pining,
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
When scarce in their teens they have wit to perplex us,
With letters and lovers for ever they vex us;
While each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought her;
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
Wrangling and jangling, Flouting and pouting,
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
Re-enter DONNA LOUISA, dressed as DUENNA, with cardinal and veil, seeming to cry.
This way, mistress, this way.—What, I warrant a tender parting; so! tears of turpentine down those deal cheeks.—Ay, you may well hide your head—yes, whine till your heart breaks! but I'll not hear one word of excuse—so you are right to be dumb. This way, this way. [Exeunt.]
Re-enter DUENNA.
Duen. So, speed you well, sagacious Don Jerome! Oh rare effects of passion and obstinacy! Now shall I try whether I can't play the fine lady as well as my mistress, and if I succeed, I may be a fine lady for the rest of my life—I'll lose no time to equip myself. [Exit.]
SCENE IV.—The Court before DON JEROME'S _House.
Enter_ DON JEROME and DONNA LOUISA.
Don Jer. Come, mistress, there is your way—the world lies before you, so troop, thou antiquated Eve, thou original sin! Hold, yonder is some fellow skulking; perhaps it is Antonio—go to him, d'ye hear, and tell him to make you amends, and as he has got you turned away, tell him I say it is but just he should take you himself; go—[Exit DONNA LOUISA.] So! I am rid of her, thank heaven! and now I shall be able to keep my oath, and confine my daughter with better security. [Exit].
SCENE V.-_The Piazza.
Enter_ DONNA CLARA and MAID.
Maid. But where, madam, is it you intend to go?
Don. Clara. Anywhere to avoid the selfish violence of my mother-in- law, and Ferdinand's insolent importunity.
Maid. Indeed, ma'am, since we have profited by Don Ferdinand's key, in making our escape, I think we had best find him, if it were only to thank him.
Don. Clara. No—he has offended me exceedingly. [Retires].
Enter DONNA LOUISA.
Don. Louisa. So I have succeeded in being turned out of doors—but how shall I find Antonio? I dare not inquire for him, for fear of being discovered; I would send to my friend Clara, but then I doubt her prudery would condemn me.
Maid. Then suppose, ma'am, you were to try if your friend Donna Louisa would not receive you?
Don. Clara. No, her notions of filial duty are so severe, she would certainly betray me.
Don. Louisa. Clara is of a cold temper, and would think this step of mine highly forward.
Don. Clara. Louisa's respect for her father is so great, she would not credit the unkindness of mine.
[DONNA LOUISA turns and sees DONNA CLARA and MAID.]
Don. Louisa. Ha! who are those? sure one is Clara—if it be, I'll trust her. Clara! [Advances.]
Don. Clara. Louisa! and in masquerade too!
Don. Louisa. You will be more surprised when I tell you, that I have run away from my father.
Don. Clara. Surprised indeed! and I should certainly chide you most horridly, only that I have just run away from mine.
Don. Louisa. My dear Clara! [Embrace.]
Don. Clara. Dear sister truant! and whither are you going?
Don. Louisa. To find the man I love, to be sure; and, I presume, you would have no aversion to meet with my brother?
Don. Clara. Indeed I should: he has behaved so ill to me, I don't believe I shall ever forgive him.
AIR.
When sable night, each drooping plant restoring,
Wept o'er the flowers her breath did cheer,
As some sad widow o'er her babe deploring,
Wakes its beauty with a tear;
When all did sleep whose weary hearts did borrow
One hour from love and care to rest,
Lo! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow,
My lover caught me to his breast!
He vow'd he came to save me
From those who would enslave me!
Then kneeling, Kisses stealing,
Endless faith he swore;
But soon I chid him thence,
For had his fond pretence
Obtain'd one favour then,
And he had press'd again,
I fear'd my treacherous heart might grant him more.
Don. Louisa. Well, for all this, I would have sent him to plead his pardon, but that I would not yet awhile have him know of my flight. And where do you hope to find protection?
Don. Clara. The Lady Abbess of the convent of St. Catherine is a relation and kind friend of mine—I shall be secure with her, and you had best go thither with me.
Don. Louisa. No; I am determined to find Antonio first; and, as I live, here comes the very man I will employ to seek him for me.
Don. Clara. Who is he? he's a strange figure.
Don. Louisa. Yes; that sweet creature is the man whom my father has fixed on for my husband.
Don. Clara. And will you speak to him? are you mad?
Don. Louisa. He is the fittest man in the world for my purpose; for, though I was to have married him to-morrow, he is the only man in Seville who, I am sure, never saw me in his life.
Don. Clara. And how do you know him?
Don. Louisa. He arrived but yesterday, and he was shown to me from the window, as he visited my father.
Don. Clara. Well, I'll begone.
Don. Louisa. Hold, my dear Clara—a thought has struck me: will you give me leave to borrow your name, as I see occasion?
Don. Clara. It will but disgrace you; but use it as you please: I dare not stay.—[Going.]—But, Louisa, if you should see your brother, be sure you don't inform him that I have taken refuge with the Dame Prior of the convent of St. Catherine, on the left hand side of the piazza which leads to the church of St. Anthony.
Don. Louisa. Ha! ha! ha! I'll be very particular in my directions where he may not find you.—[Exeunt DONNA CLARA and MAID.]—So! My swain, yonder, has, done admiring himself, and draws nearer. [Retires.]
Enter ISAAC and DON CARLOS.
Isaac. [Looking in a pocket-glass.] I tell you, friend Carlos, I will please myself in the habit of my chin.
Don Car. But, my dear friend, how can you think to please a lady with such a face?
Isaac. Why, what's the matter with the face? I think it is a very engaging face; and, I am sure, a lady must have very little taste who could dislike my beard.—[Sees DONNA LOUISA.]—See now! I'll die if here is not a little damsel struck with it already.
Don. Louisa. Signor, are you disposed to oblige a lady who greatly wants your assistance? [Unveils.]
Isaac. Egad, a very pretty black-eyed girl! she has certainly taken a fancy to me, Carlos. First, ma'am, I must beg the favour of your name.
Don. Louisa. [Aside.] So! it's well I am provided.—[Aloud.]—My name, sir, is Donna Clara d'Almanza.
Isaac. What? Don Guzman's daughter? I'faith, I just now heard she was missing.
Don. Louisa. But sure, sir, you have too much gallantry and honour to betray me, whose fault is love?
Isaac. So! a passion for me! poor girl! Why, ma'am, as for betraying you, I don't see how I could get anything by it; so, you may rely on my honour; but as for your love, I am sorry your case is so desperate.
Don. Louisa. Why so, signor?
Isaac. Because I am positively engaged to another—an't I, Carlos?
Don. Louisa. Nay, but hear me.
Isaac. No, no; what should I hear for? It is impossible for me to court you in an honourable way; and for anything else, if I were to comply now, I suppose you have some ungrateful brother, or cousin, who would want to cut my throat for my civility—so, truly, you had best go home again.
Don. Louisa. [Aside.] Odious wretch!—[Aloud.]—But, good signor, it is Antonio d'Ercilla, on whose account I have eloped.
Isaac. How! what! it is not with me, then, that you are in love?
Don. Louisa. No, indeed, it is not.
Isaac. Then you are a forward, impertinent simpleton! and I shall certainly acquaint your father.
Don. Louisa. Is this your gallantry?
Isaac. Yet hold—Antonio d'Ercilla, did you say? egad, I may make something of this—Antonio d'Ercilla?
Don. Louisa. Yes; and if ever you wish to prosper in love, you will bring me to him.
Isaac. By St. Iago and I will too!—Carlos, this Antonio is one who rivals me (as I have heard) with Louisa—now, if I could hamper him with this girl, I should have the field to myself; hey, Carlos! A lucky thought, isn't it?
Don Car. Yes, very good—very good!
Isaac. Ah! this little brain is never at a loss—cunning Isaac! cunning rogue! Donna Clara, will you trust yourself awhile to my friend's direction?
Don. Louisa. May I rely on you, good signor?
Don. Car. Lady, it is impossible I should deceive you.
AIR.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne'er could injure you;
For though your tongue no promise claim'd,
Your charms would make me true.
To you no soul shall bear deceit,
No stranger offer wrong;
But friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.
But when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,
They'll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother's part:
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong;
For friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And brothers in the young.
Isaac. Conduct the lady to my lodgings, Carlos; I must haste to Don Jerome. Perhaps you know Louisa, ma'am. She's divinely handsome, isn't she?
Don. Louisa. You must excuse me not joining with you.
Isaac. Why I have heard it on all hands.
Don. Louisa. Her father is uncommonly partial to her; but I believe you will find she has rather a matronly air.
Isaac. Carlos, this is all envy.—You pretty girls never speak well of one another.—[To DON CARLOS.] Hark ye, find out Antonio, and I'll saddle him with this scrape, I warrant. Oh, 'twas the luckiest thought! Donna Clara, your very obedient. Carlos, to your post.
DUET.
Isaac.
My mistress expects me, and I must go to her,
Or how can I hope for a smile?
Don. Louisa.
Soon may you return a prosperous wooer,
But think what I suffer the while.
Alone, and away from the man whom I love,
In strangers I'm forced to confide.
Isaac.
Dear lady, my friend you may trust, and he'll prove
Your servant, protector, and guide.
AIR.
Don Car.
Gentle maid, ah! why suspect me?
Let me serve thee—then reject me.
Canst thou trust, and I deceive thee?
Art thou sad, and shall I grieve thee?
Gentle maid, ah I why suspect me?
Let me serve thee—then reject me.
TRIO.
Don. Louisa.
Never mayst thou happy be,
If in aught thou'rt false to me.
Isaac.
Never may he happy be,
If in aught he's false to thee.
Don Car.
Never may I happy be,
If in aught I'm false to thee.
Don. Louisa.
Never mayst thou, &c.
Isaac.
Never may he, &c.
Don Car.
Never may I, &c. [Exeunt.]
ACT II.
SCENE I.—A Library in DON JEROME'S House.
Enter DON JEROME and ISAAC.
Don Jer. Ha! ha! ha! run away from her father! has she given him the slip? Ha! ha! ha! poor Don Guzman!
Isaac. Ay; and I am to conduct her to Antonio; by which means you see I shall hamper him so that he can give me no disturbance with your daughter—this is a trap, isn't it? a nice stroke of cunning, hey?
Don Jer. Excellent! excellent I yes, yes, carry her to him, hamper him by all means, ha! ha! ha! Poor Don Guzman! an old fool! imposed on by a girl!
Isaac. Nay, they have the cunning of serpents, that's the truth on't.
Don Jer. Psha! they are cunning only when they have fools to deal with. Why don't my girl play me such a trick? Let her cunning over- reach my caution, I say—hey, little Isaac!
Isaac. True, true; or let me see any of the sex make a fool of me!— No, no, egad! little Solomon (as my aunt used to call me) understands tricking a little too well.
Don Jer. Ay, but such a driveller as Don Guzman!
Isaac. And such a dupe as Antonio!
Don Jer. True; never were seen such a couple of credulous simpletons! But come, 'tis time you should see my daughter—you must carry on the siege by yourself, friend Isaac.
Isaac. Sir, you'll introduce——
Don Jer. No—I have sworn a solemn oath not to see or to speak to her till she renounces her disobedience; win her to that, and she gains a father and a husband at once.
Isaac. Gad, I shall never be able to deal with her alone; nothing keeps me in such awe as perfect beauty—now there is something consoling and encouraging in ugliness.
SONG
Give Isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast,
But health and good humour to make her his toast;
If straight, I don't mind whether slender or fat,
And six feet or four—we'll ne'er quarrel for that.
Whate'er her complexion, I vow I don't care;
If brown, it is lasting—more pleasing, if fair:
And though in her face I no dimples should see,
Let her smile—and each dell is a dimple to me.
Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen,
And her eyes may be e'en any colour but green;
For in eyes, though so various in lustre and hue,
I swear I've no choice—only let her have two.
'Tis true I'd dispense with a throne on her back,
And white teeth, I own, are genteeler than black;
A little round chin too's a beauty, I've heard;
But I only desire she mayn't have a beard.
Don Jer. You will change your note, my friend, when you've seen Louisa.
Isaac. Oh, Don Jerome, the honour of your alliance——
Don Jer. Ay, but her beauty will affect you—she is, though I say it who am her father, a very prodigy. There you will see features with an eye like mine—yes, i'faith, there is a kind of wicked sparkling— sometimes of a roguish brightness, that shows her to be my own.
Isaac. Pretty rogue!
Don Jer. Then, when she smiles, you'll see a little dimple in one cheek only; a beauty it is certainly, yet, you shall not say which is prettiest, the cheek with the dimple, or the cheek without.
Isaac. Pretty rogue!
Don Jer. Then the roses on those cheeks are shaded with a sort of velvet down, that gives a delicacy to the glow of health.
Isaac. Pretty rogue!
Don Jer. Her skin pure dimity, yet more fair, being spangled here and there with a golden freckle.
Isaac. Charming pretty rogue! pray how is the tone of her voice?
Don Jer. Remarkably pleasing—but if you could prevail on her to sing, you would be enchanted—she is a nightingale—a Virginia nightingale! But come, come; her maid shall conduct you to her antechamber.
Isaac. Well, egad, I'll pluck up resolution, and meet her frowns intrepidly.
Don Jer. Ay! woo her briskly—win her, and give me a proof of your address, my little Solomon.
Isaac. But hold—I expect my friend Carlos to call on me here. If he comes, will you send him to me?
Don Jer. I will. Lauretta!—[Calls.]—Come—she'll show you to the room. What! do you droop? here's a mournful face to make love with! [Exeunt.]
SCENE II.—DONNA LOUISA'S Dressing-Room.
Enter ISAAC and MAID.
Maid. Sir, my mistress will wait on you presently.
[Goes to the door.]
Isaac. When she's at leisure—don't hurry her.—[Exit MAID.]—I wish I had ever practised a love-scene—I doubt I shall make a poor figure—I couldn't be more afraid if I was going before the Inquisition. So, the door opens—yes, she's coming—the very rustling of her silk has a disdainful sound.
Enter DUENNA dressed as DONNA LOUISA.
Now dar'n't I look round, for the soul of me—her beauty will certainly strike me dumb if I do. I wish she'd speak first.
Duen. Sir, I attend your pleasure.
Isaac. [Aside.] So! the ice is broke, and a pretty civil beginning too!—[Aloud.] Hem! madam—miss—I'm all attention.
Duen. Nay, sir, 'tis I who should listen, and you propose.
Isaac. [Aside.] Egad, this isn't so disdainful neither—I believe I may venture to look. No—I dar'n't—one glance of those roguish sparklers would fix me again.
Duen. You seem thoughtful, sir. Let me persuade you to sit down.
Isaac. [Aside.] So, so; she mollifies apace—she's struck with my figure! this attitude has had its effect.
Duen. Come, sir, here's a chair.
Isaac. Madam, the greatness of your goodness overpowers me—that a lady so lovely should deign to turn her beauteous eyes on me so.
[She takes his hand, he turns and sees her.]
Duen. You seem surprised at my condescension.
Isaac. Why, yes, madam, I am a little surprised at it.—[Aside.] Zounds! this can never be Louisa—she's as old as my mother!
Duen. But former prepossessions give way to my father's commands.
Isaac. [Aside.] Her father! Yes, 'tis she then.—Lord, Lord; how blind some parents are!
Duen. Signor Isaac!
Isaac. [Aside.] Truly, the little damsel was right—she has rather a matronly air, indeed! ah! 'tis well my affections are fixed on her fortune, and not her person.
Duen. Signor, won't you sit? [She sits.]