Now luck for us, and a kind hearty pit ; For he who pleases never fails of wit. Honour is yours,

And you, like kings at city treats, bestow it;
The writer kneels, and is bid rise a poet:

But
you are fickle sovereigns, to our sorrow;
You dub to-day, and hang a man to-morrow;
You
cry the same sense up and down again,
Just like brass money once a-year in Spain:
Take you i' the mood, whate'er base metal come,
You coin as fast as groats at Birmingham;
Though 'tis no more like sense in ancient plays,
Than Rome's religion's like St Peter's days:
In short, so swift your judgments turn and wind,
You cast our fleetest wits a mile behind.
'Twere well your judgments but in plays did

range,

But even your follies and debauches change
With such a whirl, the poets of your age
Are tired, and cannot score them on the stage,
Unless each vice in short-hand they indite,
Even as notch'd 'prentices whole sermons write.
The heavy Hollanders no vices know,
But what they us'd a hundred years ago;
Like honest plants, where they were stuck they
grow.

They cheat, but still from cheating sires they

come;

They drink, but they were christ'ned first in mum.
Their patrimonial sloth the Spaniards keep,
And Philip first taught Philip how to sleep.
The French and we still change, but here's the
curse,

They change for better, and we change for worse;
They take up our old trade of conquering,
And we are taking theirs, to dance and sing.
Our fathers did, for change, to France repair,
"And they, for change, will try our English air.
As children, when they throw one toy away,
Strait a more foolish gewgaw comes in play;
So we, grown penitent, on serious thinking,
Leave whoring, and devoutly fall to drinking.
Scowring the watch grows out-of-fashion wit:
Now we set up for tilting in the pit,
Where 'tis agreed by bullies, chicken-hearted,
To fright the ladies first, and then be parted.
A fair attempt has twice or thrice been made
To hire night-murderers, and make death a trade.
When murder's out, what vice can we advance?
Unless the new-found pois'ning trick of France:
And when their art of rats-bane we have got,
By way of thanks, we'll send them o'er our Plot.

SCENE I.

Alph. Heaven avert it.

Ped. Then Heaven must not be Heaven. Judge the event

By what has pass'd. The usurper joy'd not long His ill-got crown. 'Tis true, he died in peace, (Unriddle that, ye powers,) but left his daughter, Our present queen, engaged, upon his death-bed, To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father

Had helped to make him great.

Hence you well know this fatal war arose, Because the Moor Abdallah, with whose troops The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused, And, as an infidel, his love despised.

Alph. Well, we are soldiers, Pedro, and, like lawyers,

Plead for our pay.

Ped. A good cause would do well though; It gives my sword an edge. You see this Bertran Has now three times been beaten by the Moors; What hope we have is in young Torrismond, Your brother's son.

Alph. He's a successful warrior, And has the soldier's hearts. Upon the skirts Of Arragon our squadron'd troops he rallies: Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes Expect his swift arrival.

Ped. It must be swift, or it will come too late. Alph. No more- -Duke Bertran,

Now, colonel, have you disposed your men, That you stand idle here?

Ped. Mine are drawn off, To take a short repose.

Bert. Short let it be ;

For from the Moorish camp, this hour and more, There has been heard a distant humming noise, Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives. What courage in our soldiers? Speak! What hope?

Ped. As much as when physicians shake their heads,

And bid their dying patient think of Heaven. Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain; The rest, an heartless number, spent with watching,

And harassed out with duty.

Bert. Good night all then.

Ped. Nay, for my part, 'tis but a single life I have to lose: I'll plant my colours down In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot; Say a short soldier's prayer, to spare the trouble Of my few friends above, and then expect The next fair bullet.

Alph. Never was known a night of such dis

traction;

Noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds, That run, and know not whither; torches gliding, Like meteors, by each other in the streets.

Ped. I met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar,With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin Might rest upon't; a true son of the church; Fresh colour'd, and well thriven on his trade,Came puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir, And fumbling o'er his beads, in such an agony, He told them false for fear: about his neck There hung a wench, the label of his function, Whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly. It seems the holy stallion durst not score Another sin before he left the world.

them, for shame,

Level their cannon lower: on my soul,

They're all corrupted with the gold of Barbary, To carry over, and not hurt the Moor.

Enter a Second Captain.

2 Capt. My lord, here's fresh intelligence arrived.

Our army, led by valiant Torrismond,

Is now in hot engagement with the Moors; 'Tis said, within their trenches.

Bert. I think all fortune is reserved for him. He might have sent us word though, And then we could have favoured his attempt With sallies from the town.

Alph. It could not be:

We were so close block'd up, that none could peep

Upon the walls and live; but yet 'tis time.

Bert. No, 'tis too late; I will not hazard it: On pain of death, let no man dare to sally. Ped. [Aside.] Oh, envy, envy, how it works within him!

How now what means this show?

Alph. 'Tis a procession:

The queen is going to the great cathedral,
To pray for our success against the Moors.

Ped. Very good: she usurps the throne, keeps the old king in prison, and, at the same time, is praying for a blessing: Oh, religion and roguery, how they go together!

[Shout and flourish of trumpets.

A Procession of Priests and Choiristers in white, with tapers, followed by the Queen and Ladies, goes over the stage; the Choiristers singing.

Look down, ye bless'd above, look down ;
Behold our weeping matrons teurs,
Behold our tender virgins fears,
And with success our armies crown.

Look down, ye bless'd above, look down ;
Oh, save us, save us, and our state restore;
For pity, pity, pity we implore;
For pity, pity, pity we implore.

[The Procession goes off, and shout within. Enter LORENZO, who kneels to ALPHONSO. Bert. [To ALPH.] A joyful cry; and see your son, Lorenzo. Good news, kind Heav'n!

Alph. [To LOR.] Oh, welcome, welcome! Is the general safe?

How near our army? When shall we be succoured?

Or are we succour'd? Are the Moors removed?
Answer these questions first, and then a thou-
sand more;
Answer them all together.

Lor. Yes, when I have a thousand tongues, I will.

The general's well; his army too is safe

As victory can make them: the Moors' king

At dawn of day our general cleft his pate,
Spite of his woollen night-cap: a slight wound;
Perhaps he may recover.

Alph. Thou revivest me.

Ped. By my computation now, the victory was gained before the procession was made for it, and yet it will go hard but the priests will make a miracle of it.

Lor. Yes, faith, we came, like bold intruding

guests,

And took them unprepared to give us welcome. Their scouts we killed, then found their body sleeping,

And as they lay confused, we stumbled o'er them, And took what joint came next-arms, heads, or legs,

Somewhat undecently. But when men want light,
They make but bungling work.
Bert. I'll to the
queen,
And bear the news.

Ped. That's young Lorenzo's duty.
Bert. I'll spare his trouble.-

This Torrismond begins to grow too fast;
He must be mine, or ruined.

Lor. Pedro, a word. [Whisper.]

[Aside.

[Exit BERTRAN. Alph. How swift he shot away! I find it stung him,

In spite of his dissembling.

[To LOR.] How many of the enemy are slain? Lor. Troth, sir, we were in haste, and could

Lor. Then look to see a storm on Torrismond's. Looks fright not men: the general has sen Moors

With as bad faces, no dispraise to Bertran's. Ped. 'Twas rumour'd in the camp he loves the queen.

Lor. He drinks her health devoutly.

Alph. That may breed bad blood 'twixt him and Bertran.

Ped. Yes, in private.

But Bertran has been taught the arts of courts,
To gild a face with smiles, and leer a man to ruin.
Oh, here they come.-

Enter TORRISMOND and Officers on one side,
BERTRAN, attended, on the other; they embrace,
BERTRAN bowing low.
Just as I prophesied.

Lor. Death and hell! he laughs at him! in's face too.

Ped. Oh, you mistake him! 'twas an humble grin,

The fawning joy of courtiers and of dogs.

Lor [Aside.] Here are nothing but lies to be expected. I'll e'en go lose myself in some blind alley, and try if any courteous damsel will think me worth the finding. [Exit LOR.

Alph. Now he begins to open.

Bert. Your country rescu❜d, and your queen
reliev'd!

A glorious conquest, noble Torrismond!
The people rend the skies with loud applause,
And Heav'n can hear no other name but yours.
The thronging crowds press on you as you pass,
And with their eager joy make triumph slow.
Tor. My lord, I have no taste

Of popular applause; the noisy praise
Of giddy crowds, as changeable as winds,
Still vehement, and still without a cause;
Servants to chance, and blowing in the tide
Of swoll'n success; but veering with its ebb,
It leaves the channel dry.

Bert. So young a stoic!

Tor. You wrong me, if you think I'll sell one
drop

Within these veins for pageants; but let honour
Call for my blood, and sluice it into streams:
Turn Fortune loose again to my pursuit,
And let me hunt her through embattled foes,
In dusty plains, amidst the cannon's roar,
There will I be the first.

[Aside.

Bert. Il try him farther.Suppose the assembled states of Arragon Decree a statue to you, thus inscribedTo Torrismond, who freed his native land. Alph. [To PED.] Mark how he sounds and fathoms him, to find

The shallows of his soul.

Bert. The just applause

Of godlike senates is the stamp of virtue, Which makes it pass unquestioned through the world.

These honours you deserve; nor shall my suffrage

Be last to fix them on you: If refused,

You brand us all with black ingratitude;
For times to come shall say, our Spain, like
Rome,

Neglects her champions after noble acts,
And lets their laurels wither on their heads.

Tor. A statue for a battle blindly fought, Where darkness and surprise made conquest cheap!

Where Virtue borrowed but the arms of Chance, And struck a random blow! 'Twas Fortune's work,

And Fortune take the praise.
Bert. Yet happiness

Is the first fame. Virtue without success
Is a fair picture shewn by an ill light;
But lucky men are favourites of Heaven;
And whom should kings esteem above Heaven's
darlings?

The praises of a young and beauteous queen
Shall crown your glorious acts.

Ped. [To ALPH.] There sprung the mine.
Tor. The queen! that were a happiness too
great!

Named you the queen, my lord?

Bert. Yes. You have seen her, and you must

confess,

A praise, a smile, a look from her is worth
The shouts of thousand amphitheatres.
She, she shall praise you; for I can oblige her:
To-morrow will deliver all her charms
Into my armis, and make her mine for ever.
Why stand you mute?

Tor. Alas, I cannot speak!

Bert. Not speak, iny lord! How were your thoughts employed?

Tor. Nor can I think; for I am lost in thought. Bert. Thought of the queen, perhaps?

Tor. Why, if it were,

Heaven may be thought on, though too high to climb.

Bert. Oh, now I find where your ambition drives!

You ought not to think of her.

Tor. So I say too;

I ought not: madmen ought not to be mad,
But who can help his frenzy?

Bert. Fond young man!

The wings of your ambition must be clipped. Your shame-faced virtue shunned the people's praise,

And senate's honours; but 'tis well we know What price you hold yourself at. You have

fought

With some success, and that has sealed your pardon.

Tor. Pardon from thee! Oh, give me patience, Heaven!

Thrice vanquished Bertran, if thou darest, look

I'll not contend with madmen.

Tor. I've done.

I know 'twere madness to declare this truth,
And yet 'twere baseness to deny my love.
'Tis true, my hopes are vanishing as clouds,
Lighter than children's bubbles blown by wind;
My merit's but the rash result of chance;
My birth unequal; all the stars against me;
Power, promise, choice, the living and the dead;
Mankind my foes, and only love my friend;
But such a love, kept at such awful distance,
As, what it loudly dares to tell, a rival
Shall fear to whisper there. Queens may be loved,
And so may gods; else why are altars raised?
Why shines the sun, but that he may be viewed?
But oh, when he's too bright, if then we gaze,
'Tis but to weep, and close our eyes in darkness!
[Exit.
Bert. 'Tis well: the goddess shall be told,
she shall,

Of her new worshipper.

[Exit.

Ped. So, here's fine work! He supplied his only foe with arms For his destruction. Old Penelope's tale Inverted: he has unravelled all by day, That he has done by night. What, planet-struck!

Alph. I wish I were, to be past sense of this. Ped. Would I had but a lease of life so long, As till my flesh and blood rebelled this way Against our sovereign lady! Mad for a queen, With a globe in one hand, and a sceptre in t'other; A very pretty moppet!

Alph. Then to declare his madness to his rival, His father absent on an embassy, Himself a stranger, almost wholly friendless! A torrent, rolling down a precipice, Is easier to be stopped than is his ruin.

Ped. 'Tis fruitless to complain: Haste to the
court;

Improve your interest there, for pardon from
the queen.
Alph. Weak remedies;
But all must be attempted.

Enter LORENZO.

Enter ELVIRA, veiled.

Elv. Stranger! cavalier!-Will you not hear me, you Moor-killer, you matador? Lor. Meaning me, madam?

Elo. Face about, man: you a soldier, and afraid of the enemy!

Lor. I must confess, I did not expect to have been charged first. I see souls will not be lost for want of diligence in this devil's reign. [Aside.] -Now, madam Cynthia behind a cloud, your will and pleasure with me?

Elv. You have the appearance of a cavalier; and if you are as deserving as you seem, perhaps you may not repent of your adventure. If a lady like you well enough to hold discourse with you at first sight, you are gentleman énough, I hope, to help her out with an apology, and to lay the blame on stars, or destiny, or what you please, to excuse the frailty of a woman.

Lor. Oh, I love an easy woman! there's such ado to crack a thick-shelled mistress, we break our teeth, and find no kernel. 'Tis generous in you to take pity on a stranger, and not to suffer him to fall into ill hands at his first arrival.

Elv. You have a better opinion of me than I deserve. You have not seen me yet, and therefore I am confident you are heart-whole.

Lor. Not absolutely slain, I must confess, but I am drawing on apace. You have a dangerous tongue in your head, I can tell you that; and if your eyes prove of as killing metal, there's but one way with me. Let me see you, for the safeguard of my honour: 'tis but decent the cannon should be drawn down upon me before I yield.

Elo. What a terrible similitude have you made, colonel, to shew that you are inclining to the wars! I could answer you with another in my profession. Suppose you were in want of money-would you not be glad to take a sum upon content in a sealed bag, without peeping? But however I will not stand with you for a [Lifts up her veil. Lor. What eyes were there! how keen their glances! you do well to keep them veiled: they are too sharp to be trusted out of the scabbard.

Lor. Well, I am the most unlucky rogue! I have been ranging over half the town, but have sprung no game. Our women are worse infidels than the Moors: I told them I was one of their knights-errant, that delivered them from ravishment; and I think in my conscience that's their quarrel to me.

Ped. Is this a time for fooling? Your cousin is run honourably mad in love with her majesty : he is split upon a rock; and you, who are in chace of harlots, are sinking in the main ocean. I think the devil's in the family.

[Exit.

Lor. My cousin ruined, says he?-Hum!Not that I wish my cousin's ruin; that were unchristian; but if the general's ruined, I am heir; there's comfort for a Christian. Money I have, I thank the honest Moors for't; but I want a mistress. I am willing to be lewd, but the tempter is wanting on his part.

Elv. Perhaps, now, you may accuse my forwardness; but this day of jubilee is the only time of freedom I have had; and there is nothing so extravagant as a prisoner, when he gets loose a little, and is immediately to return to his fet

ters.

Lor. To confess freely to you, madam-I was never in love with less than your whole sex before; but now I have seen you, I am in the direct road of languishing and sighing; and if love goes on as it begins, for aught I know, by tomorrow morning you may hear of me in rhyme and sonnet. I tell you truly, I do not like these symptoms in myself. Perhaps I may go shufflingly at first; for I was never before walked in trammels; yet I shall drudge and moil at constancy, till I have worn off the hitching in my

pace.