Is one to both. We shall hardly agree.
BA. I find we sha' not.

Will you walk?

AN. This choleric Biscayner takes me more than A wench. Sir, stay a while! the business that We go about, is not so trivial, but

It may conveniently require

The interchanging of a word, especially

When we consider our discourses after death
Are but uncertain.

BA. Dispatch then! I'm in haste.

AN. Do you conceive you have deriv'd this mettle

To your daughter; and she, as far as her

Part lies, can with another's help

Derive it to a son?

BA. Sir! you shall know my daughter wants no mettle.

AN. Then you must know she shall not be restor❜d.

BAL. Why not restor❜d?

AN. May be, I've some occasion to marry her. ORCO. In my judgment, a satisfying reason.

But not, sir, without my consent.

AN. I'm partly of your mind, for, as I hear,

Your consent may do well.

BA. So are you, I hope.

AN. Nay if we fall

Y'are very rich.

To good wishes, 'tis like we may agree.

Enter ARGILO and GONSALVA.

AN. Pray, gentlemen! can any here instruct Us where to find Don Orgemon, or Don Dorando? GON. Th'intelligence, if suddenly attain'd, May, by the use, procure a gen'ral thanks.

BAL. Orgemon and Dorando! Why d'you ask So earnestly, and with such haste?

AN. 'Tis I'm concern'd in your inquiry, gentle

men;

For now it seems it argues danger.

ORCO. And I am concern'd too; what is the business?

AN. 'Tis certain they are missing, and are gone By probable mistrust to fight.

GON. Th' occasion of their qurrrel's partly known, And they were early seen both hors'd and arm'd. BAL. Whither did they ride?

AN. Nay sir, that question is our business here. GON. We thought Don Orco and Androlio, b'ing Their friends, might guess, to what fit place Their anger would direct them.

BA. Th' are gallant youths. I would not, for the treasure of

Castile, have either's life endanger'd in
A foolish cause.

AN. How can their danger, sir,

In so particular a sense belong to you?
BA. No matter! Y'are troublesome.

My horse, my horse!

I shall return, sir, in a short career,

Take an accompt of my daughter, or call

You out to this mad sport.

[Exit.

AN. I am inclin'd unto this reverend cavalier,

Beyond all latitude of words, but if

Don Orgemon is grown so much

Impatient of slight things call'd injuries,

His next hot bout must be with me.

ORCO. Prithee! let's hasten to prevent this duel!
AN. I fear it is too late; but I'll commit

My mistress to th' protection of this key,
And then to horse.

ORCO. Come, seniors! his stable will provide us

all.

[Exeunt.

Enter CLARAMANTE and ORGEMON.

CLA. Oh, my prophetic tears! why are thy looks So wild, so busily dispers'd, as if,

In vain, thou sought'st for safety after guilt?

ORGE. Why, Claramante, dost thou frown upon My triumphs, as, if now, I were less worth In victory than in my doubtful state

Of fortune ere 'twas try'd; when it was possible I might be lessen'd and subdu'd?

CLAR. Whom hast thou conquer'd, fatal Orgemon? That thou should'st wear those bloody stains with so Much pride, as if the world did newly owe Its freedom to thy valour's force.

ORG. Mine enemy! one that advanc'd his love To ruin mine. Rivals for hearts are like

Competitors for crowns; they will allow

No equal, nor admit him living that
Disturbs their hopes.

CLA. Thy jealous honour is

Most viciously and cruelly inclin'd.

Couldst thou not think thy love was safe, without The ruin of Dorando, that preserv'd

The life of Balthazar, did rescue mine;

Gave rash Leonte leave to live, and thee

Thy freedom, when thou wer't surpris'd and bound? ÖRG. These were indeed acts of renown, nor can

My envy ere mislead my virtue, till

It give them but a cheap esteem; I wish
His honour had been greater, so he could
Have had less love.

CLA. Alas! was love his crime?

And love of me? I find thy heart was cast,
And fashion'd in the common lover's mould,
Poorly compounded of malicious fears,

Of rash low jealousies, hating

That noble virtue in another, which

Thou highly valued'st in thyself.

ORG. This wisdom and compassion comes too late.
Would I had lost my youthful being, and
My precious fame! all that I value, but

Thy love, so I could call him back from those
Unknown or distant shades, that he might see
The sun and thee again.

CLA. O, that some winged messenger

Would quickly travel through the clouds, and fetch Me all my vows from Heaven! that so my faith, When disengaged, might give a needful liberty Unto my love. Why should it longer be confin'd To harbour in thy breast, since there 'twas entertain'd

With such uncivil jealousy?

ORG. I shall become a sad exemplar sacrifice T'instruct, and expiate the world, and die To cure the folly of succeeding lovers' doubts. CLA. Unfortunate Dorando! is the cold Dark grave all the reward my luckless stars Could pay thee for thy mercy to my brothers shewn, And kind protection of my life ? [Going out.

ORG. Stay, Claramante! Stay! If thou Dost carry hence thy injur'd love, and leave Me unforgiven, oppress'd, and loaden with The weight of guilt, I will at once shake off This burden of mortality, and it.

CLA. Although my sudden kindness may appear A sin, I cannot leave thee to

The danger of such cruel thoughts. Take heed
How you do threaten heaven, by menacing
Yourself! as we have no authority

To take away the being of another, whom
Our pride contemns, so we have less t'annihilate
Our own, when it is fall'n in our dislike.

ORG. Is it thy pleasure I should live?

And am I call'd to't by love, and may believe

I have some little warrant to authorize hope?

Enter BALTHAZAR.

BAL. Where is Don Orgemon? Sister, I see, In fears and grief, you both have equal share, But I shall timely ease your suff'rings. Dorando wasted with his wounds, awhile Assum'd the cold aspect of death ; but, rub’d And chafed into his native heat, his strength And understanding are in same degree Of safety home return'd; nor are his wounds So plac'd, but that the surgeon may allow Them sudden hope of cure.

ORG. Thou blessed messenger of life
Be ever happy, and thy voice be still

The forward usher unto good, and noble fame !
Live to be chief in armies, and the first

That brings thy doubtful country news of victory.
CLA. Best of my blood! Thy comforts, Balthazar,
Are still as swift and winged when they come,
As thou art slow to carry sorrows to thy friends.
ORG. Now, Claramante, let me not distrust
Thy pardon may increase, since my offence
Seems to grow less; and let the mercy of
Thy love give strength and form unto
My yet imperfect joys.

CLA. If in thy last

Encounter thou hadst lost much blood, I should
Forgive thy want of blushes for this rash
Request; but having such supplies of colour left
To make up seeming bashfulness, where is
That red and modest tincture which belongs
Unto thy brow, and should appear when thou
So soon dost ask me for my love,

So lately forfeited by jealousy?

ORG. I yield, and humbly bow unto my fate! Yet since there's to confession some forgiveness due,