With such smooth looks, and many a gentle

word,

The first fair she beguil'd her easie lord;
Too blind with love and beauty to beware,
He fell unthinking in the fatal snare;
Nor cou'd believe that such a heav'nly face
Had bargain'd with the devil to damn her
wretched race.

SCENE II.

Scene, the Street near Sciolto's Palace.

Enter Lothario and Rossano.

Exit.

Lothario. To tell thee then the purport of my
thoughts;

The loss of this fond paper would not give me
A moment of disquiet, were it not

My instrument of vengeance on this Altamont :
Therefore I mean to wait some opportunity
Of speaking with the maid we saw this morning.
Rossano. I wish you, sir, to think upon the
danger

Of being seen; to day their friends are round
'em,

And any eye, that lights by chance on you,
Shall put your life and safety to the hazard.

They confer aside.

Scene II. F marks this as Scene III and places it in The Garden belonging to Sciolto's Palace.

170

5

IO

Enter Horatio.

Horatio. Still I must doubt some mystery of

mischief,

Some artifice beneath; Lothario's father
I knew him well, he was sagacious, cunning,
Fluent in words, and bold in peaceful councils,
But of a cold, unactive hand in war.

Yet with these coward's virtues he undid
My unsuspecting, valiant, honest friend.

This son,
if fame mistakes not, is more hot,
More open and unartful. (Seeing him.) Ha! he's
here!

Loth. Damnation! He again! - This sec

ond time

To day he has crost me like my evil genius.
Hor. I sought you, sir.

Loth.

'Tis well then I am found. Hor. 'Tis well you are: the man who

wrongs my friend

15

20

To the earth's utmost verge I wou'd pursue;
No place, tho' e'er so holy, shou'd protect him; 25
No shape that artful fear e'er form'd, shou'd
hide him,

'Till he fair answer made, and did me justice.
Loth. Ha! dost thou know me? that I am

Lothario?

As great a name as this proud city boasts of.

II I must. 1732, must I.

Who is this mighty man then, this Horatio,
That I should basely hide me from his anger,
Lest he should chide me for his friend's dis-
pleasure?

Hor. The brave, 't is true, do never shun the

light;

Just are their thoughts, and open are their

tempers,

Freely without disguise they love and hate,
Still are they found in the fair face of day,
And heav'n and men are judges of their actions.
Loth. Such let 'em be of mine; there's not

a purpose

Which my soul ever fram'd, or my hand acted,
But I could well have bid the world look on,
And what I once durst do, have dar'd to justifie.
Hor. Where was this open boldness, this free

spirit?

When but this very morning I surpriz'd thee
In base, dishonest privacy, consulting
And bribing a poor mercenary wretch

To sell her lady's secrets, stain her honour,
And with a forg'd contrivance blast her vir-

30

35

40

45

48 fled'st. 1732, fledest.

Hor. Thou fed'st, and guilt was on thee;

like a thief,

A pilferer descry'd in some dark corner,
Who there had lodg'd, with mischievous intent
To rob and ravage at the hour of rest,

And do a midnight murder on the sleepers.
Loth. Slave! Villian!

Offers to draw, Rossano holds him.

50

Ross. Hold, my lord! think where you are, 55
Think how unsafe and hurtful to your honour
It were to urge a quarrel in this place,
And shock the peaceful city with a broil.
Loth. Then since thou dost provoke my
vengeance, know

I wou'd not for this city's wealth, for all
Which the sea wafts to our Ligurian shoar,
But that the joys I reap'd with that fond wanton,
The wife of Altamont, shou'd be as publick
As is the noon-day sun, air, earth, or water,
Or any common benefit of nature :

Think'st thou I meant the shame shou'd be con-
ceal'd?

Oh no! by hell and vengeance, all I wanted
Was some fit messenger to bear the news

To the dull doating husband; now I have found

him,

And thou art he.

60

65

Hor.

I hold thee base enough

70

To break through law, and spurn at sacred order,

And do a brutal injury like this;

Yet mark me well, young lord, I think Calista
Too nice, too noble, and too great of soul,
To be the prey of such a thing as thou art.
'T was base and poor, unworthy of a man,
To forge a scrowl so villanous and loose,
And mark it with a lady's name;

75

These are the mean, dishonest arts of cowards,
Strangers to manhood, and to glorious dangers, 80
Who bred at home in idleness and riot,

Ransack for mistresses th' unwholesome stews,
And never know the worth of virtuous love.
Loth. Think'st thou I forg'd the letter?
Think so still,

'Till the broad shame comes staring in thy face, 85 And boys shall hoot the cuckold as he passes. Hor. Away, no woman cou'd descend so

low:

A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are,
Fit only for your selves, you herd together;
And when the circling glass warms your vain
hearts,

You talk of beauties that you never saw,
And fancy raptures that you never knew.
Legends of saints who never yet had being,
80 Strangers. . . dangers. F omits.

90