So parts the miser from his hoarded wealth, And eyes the casket when the keys are turn'd. I must away. The world e'en now awakes, and the wan moon (Like some tired sentinel, his vigil o'er) Sinks down beneath yon trees. The morning mist Already seeks the skies, ascending straight, Like infant's prayers, or souls of holy martyrs. I must away. The world will not revolve another hour, Ere hives of men will pour their millions forth,
To seek their food by labour, or supply
Their wants by plunder, flattery, or deceit.
Avarice again will count the dream'd-of hoards,
Envy and Rancour stab, whilst sobbing Charity
Will bind the fest'ring wounds that they have giv'n.
The world of sin and selfishness awakes
Once more, to swell its catalogue of crime,
So monstrous that it wearies patient Heav'n.
I must away. [Exit.
Act II. Scene I.
The street before Anselmo's lodgings.
Enter Antonio.
If ever fortune played me a jade's trick, 'twas when she brought my wives to Seville. So far have I contrived to keep them separate; but should they meet, they'll talk; and then, woe to that most interesting of all subjects, myself! I am sure to be discovered. Why, in half an hour, their rapid tongues would range o'er half the creation. Now, Beppa is my first wife, and, like all other first choices, the worst. There's vengeance in her, and she'll apply to the authorities; then must I to the galleys. Who wants a wife? I have one—aye two—to dispose of. Here comes a fool I trifle with. (Enter Sancho.) So, comrade, what's your business now? (Mimicking him.) Saint Petronila! you are a faithful servant, ever stirring to do your master's pleasure.
San. 'Tis not his pleasure that I am upon—it is my own: I go to Donna Isidora's.
Ant. What dost thou there?
San. (affectedly). I please a damsel, and she pleases me.
Ant. I do not wonder at it. Barring a certain too intelligent look that thou hast, thou art a pretty fellow, and made to charm the ladies. Who is this damsel of your choice?
San. You'll keep my secret?
Ant. As faithfully as I do all others.
San. It is the maid of Donna Isidora. I knew her at Toledo, and for years kept her company. During my absence—Saint Petronila strike him with the leprosy!—a certain Lopez, a dirty, shuffling, addle-pated knave, stepped in between us, and married her. She took the poor fool purely through pique, because I did not write to her; and the holy saint knows I had not then learned.
Ant. (aside). Now would I beat his pate, but that I think the fool may assist me out of my difficulties. (Aloud.) What! love a married woman! For shame, Sancho! I had thought better of you.
San. I loved her years before she married; and since the marriage, her husband has deserted her, and I have met her often. Nina, for that's her name, has often told me how much she repented of her marriage with the fellow; and could I prove that he were dead, she'd marry me, Saint Petronila directing her, and make a wiser choice in second wedlock.
Ant. (aside). The cockatrice. (Aloud.) Sancho, I knew this Lopez. He is not quite the person you describe; but never mind. Yesterday, he came to Seville, and told me how much surprised he was to find his wife here.
San. Then he's come back. Saint Petronila aid me! how unfortunate!
Ant. (musing aside). I have it! (Aloud.) Sancho, we have ever been the best of friends. I respect you much. I have most joyful tidings for you, and, if you will be counselled by me, Nina is yours.
San. Indeed! I can't see how. I think I had a better chance before.
Ant. Tut, man! you've now a certainty. Sancho, your ear—Lopez is dead!
San. The scoundrel dead! My dear Antonio (embracing him), I thank you for the news, and so will Nina too. But can you prove it?
Ant. I can, but in strict confidence. Pledge me your word you never will divulge, not even to Nina, what I now confide; for the women have the power to sap the stoutest resolution. Swear on your knees.
San. (kneeling). I swear by Petronila, my adopted saint.
Ant. Well, then, this Lopez was a noisy braggadocio. Last night we had some words whilst waiting near the gate of Donna Serafina. From words we came to weapons, and, by a lucky thrust, I sent his prying soul the devil knows where. His body I secreted in the garden.
San. I envy you. Would he were alive again, that I might kill him too, my guardian saint assisting! I should be the better welcome.
Ant. Indeed!
San. Not that it matters; I am convinced she loves me well. I'll to her straight, and with these welcome tidings make her right happy.
Ant. Not quite so fast. When that you tell her, she will ask for proofs, and from whence you had your information.
San. Why, that is true; and she'll never rest till she worms the secret from me: Saint Petronila, lock my breast!
Ant. Therefore, Sancho, it must appear as if there was no secret. Tell her 'twas by your hand that Lopez fell; I am content that you shall have with her all the credit of the deed. She'll love you better.
San. Why, so she will. My dear Antonio, you are like my holy saint, a friend indeed!
Ant. If she doubts the fact, you'll come to me. I'll give you proofs most positive.
San. Thanks—thanks!
Ant. Now take advice. Women, like eels, are rather slippery; already she has once slipped through your fingers. Their minds are weathercocks, and there's wind always blowing. Press her, then, hard, and marry her at once.
San. I will, I will. Thanks, dear Antonio!—Saint Petronila will reward you.
Ant. I risk much to serve you. You'll meet me here to-night. I must now to confess this heavy deed. You'll come.
San. I will—addio! [Exit.
Ant. So, so the fondling, ever coaxing Nina Loves this soft fool, and wishes I were dead. I did think better of her. We men deceive, 'tis true; but still no longer Keep on the mask, when we've our purpose gain'd. With us 'tis tiresome; but with the women, 'Tis ne'er removed; for mask'd they live and die! [Exit.
Scene II.
The Monastery.
Gaspar, as Anselmo, enters with Jacobo.
Jac.
