 | The Storm |  |
SCENE III.
A High Road near De Silva Castle.Enter Don Lopez de Gongora and Gomez with a Cloakbag.
LOPEZ.
Plague on those sandy hills, those barren remnants
Of primitive confusion, which reflect
From their loose surface heat enough to melt
A man of less consistence than myself!
And double plagues light on the restive mule,
On which this morn I mounted for my sins!
I would have turn'd her from the narrow path,
Which on the verge of a steep precipice
She had chos'n out; but she, forsooth, preferring
Her wit to mine, demurr'd. I rais'd my staff,
And smote her o'er the ears; she rais'd her heels,
And toss'd me some three yards before her head.
The dogs may feast on her for what I care,
And on me too, if e'er again I mount her.
How far is't, varlet, to De Silva Castle?
113
'Tis somewhat better, sir, than half a mile.
It may be more or less for aught I know.
I'll not be positive.
LOPEZ.
You will be positive,
Nay most superlative, in formal dulness.
Better than half a mile!
GOMEZ.
Aye, I'll be sworn
'Tis that at least. Why, it's a furlong hence—
So said the muleteer—let's see—a furlong
To Pedro's cottage—twice as much to Sancho's—
LOPEZ.
'Tis a day's journey! I shall melt away,
Like a wax image 'fore a witch's fire.
Where is my cloak-bag, mongrel? I shall need
A change of garments, when my journey's ended.
GOMEZ.
Here 'tis, an't please your worship.
LOPEZ.
Take it up—
Why how unhandily you set about it!
GOMEZ.
'Tis passing weighty, sir, for one like me.
I can't—
114
What, mutiny?—Here—take it up.
GOMEZ.
I may as well attempt to move yon cliff
As raise it up. I pray you lend a hand.
LOPEZ.
Marry, that I will straight.
(Strikes Gomez.
GOMEZ.
Nay, an you strike me,
Your fardel may lie here till doomsday, or
You may e'en carry it yourself. I list not.
LOPEZ.
What's that thou say'st?
GOMEZ.
I won't.
LOPEZ.
Thoud'st best take heed.
GOMEZ.
Look you, Don Lopez, or Don Gongora,
I know not if I give you your right titles,
But this I know, I'll be your slave no longer.
Here goes your liv'ry! Some two dozen valets
Have worn't already, and it may fit others.
Pay me my wages! I have serv'd ten weeks
At th' rate of twenty crowns per annum—
115
Phew!
Is the man mad? What ails thee, my good Gomez?
Some gad-fly sure hath stung thee. Leave me, say'st thou?
Thou know'st thy duty better, than to quit me
Here in this desert, all alone and helpless.
Tut! Thou'rt a simpleton. I did but joke.
'Tis a droll way I have.
GOMEZ.
Yes, mighty droll
T'abuse and strike one.
LOPEZ.
'Twas a joke, I tell thee.
Here, take it up, I pray. I'll lend a hand.
GOMEZ.
If 'twere no more than joke—
LOPEZ.
It was no more.
GOMEZ.
Well, I'm an easy fool.—So— (puts on his cloaths)
Raise it now.
Give me my staff.
LOPEZ.
Now onward to the castle.
(Aside)
When we get there, I'll teach thee a new lesson.
[Exeunt.
| The Storm | |