University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

SCENE, the Street near Sciolto's Palace.
Enter Lothario and Rossano.
Loth.
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.

Ross.
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.
Enter Horatio.
Hor.
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.—Ha! he's here!

[Seeing him.
Loth.
Damnation! He again!—This second 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
To the Earth's utmost Verge I wou'd pursue;
No Place, tho' e'er so holy, shou'd protect him;
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.
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 Displeasure?

Hor.
The Brave, 'tis 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 Virtue:
At Sight of me thou fledst!

Loth.
Ha! Fled from thee?

Hor.
Thou fled'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! Villain!—

[Offers to draw, Rossano holds him.
Ross.
Hold, my Lord! think where you are,
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 conceal'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.

Hor.
I hold thee base enough,
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.
'Twas base and poor, unworthy of a Man,
To forge a Scrowl so villanous and loose,
And Mark it with a noble Lady's Name;
These are the mean, dishonest Arts of Cowards,
Strangers to Manhood, and to glorious Dangers;
Who bred at Home in Idleness and Riot,
Ransack for Mistresses th'unwholsome 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,
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, your 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,
Or being, ne'er were Saints, are not so false
As the fond Tales which you recount of Love.

Loth.
But that I do not hold it worth my Leisure,
I cou'd produce such damning Proof—

Hor.
'Tis false,
You blast the Fair with Lies because they scorn you,
Hate you like Age, like Ugliness and Impotence:
Rather than make you blest they wou'd die Virgins,
And stop the Propagation of Mankind.

Loth.
It is the Curse of Fools to be secure,
And that be thine and Altamont's: Dream on,
Nor think upon my Vengeance 'till thou feel'st it.

Hor.
Hold, Sir, another Word, and then farewel;
Tho' I think greatly of Calista's Virtue,
And hold it far beyond thy Pow'r to hurt;
Yet as she shares the Honour of my Altamont,
That Treasure of a Soldier, bought with Blood,
And kept at Life's Expence, I must not have
(Mark me, young Sir) her very Name prophan'd.
Learn to restrain the Licence of your Speech;
'Tis held you are too lavish; when you are met
Among your Set of Fools, talk of your Dress,
Of Dice, of Whores, of Horses, and your Selves;
'Tis safer, and becomes your Understandings.

Loth.
What if we pass beyond this solemn Order?
And, in Defiance of the stern Horatio,
Indulge our gayer Thoughts, let Laughter loose,
And use his sacred Friendship for our Mirth.

Hor.
'Tis well! Sir, you are pleasant—

Loth.
By the Joys,
Which yet my Soul has uncontroll'd pursu'd,
I wou'd not turn aside from my least Pleasure,
Tho' all thy Force were arm'd to bar my Way;
But like the Birds, great Nature's happy Commoners,
That haunt in Woods, in Meads, and flow'ry Gardens,
Rifle the Sweets, and taste the choicest Fruits,
Yet scorn to ask the Lordly Owners leave.

Hor.
What Liberty has vain presumptuous Youth,
That thou shou'dst dare provoke me unchastis'd?
But henceforth, Boy, I warn thee shun my Walks;
If in the Bounds of yon forbidden Place
Again thou'rt found, expect a Punishment,
Such as great Souls, impatient of an Injury,
Exact from those who wrong 'em much, ev'n Death;
Or something worse; an injur'd Husband's Vengeance
Shall print a thousand Wounds, tear thy fine Form,
And scatter thee to all the Winds of Heav'n.

Loth.
Is then my Way in Genoa prescrib'd,
By a Dependant on the wretched Altamont,
A talking Sir, that brawls for him in Taverns,
And vouches for his Valour's Reputation?—

Hor.
Away, thy Speech is fouler than thy Manners.

Loth.
Or if there be a Name more vile, his Parasite,
A Beggar's Parasite!—

Hor.
Now learn Humanity,
[Offers to strike him, Rossano interposes.
Since Brutes and Boys are only taught with Blows,

Loth.
Damnation!

[They Draw.
Ross.
Hold, this goes no further here,
Horatio, 'tis too much; already see,
The Crowd are gath'ring to us.

Loth.
Oh Rossano!
Or give me way, or thou'rt no more my Friend.

Ross.
Sciolto's Servants too have ta'ne the Alarm;
You'll be opprest by Numbers, be advis'd,
Or I must force you hence; take't on my Word,
You shall have Justice done you on Horatio.
Put up, my Lord.

Loth.
This wo'not brook Delay;
West of the Town a Mile, among the Rocks,
Two Hours e'er Noon to morrow I expect thee,
Thy single Hand to mine.

Hor.
I'll meet thee there.

Loth.
To morrow, oh my better Stars! to morrow,
Exert your Influence, shine strongly for me;
'Tis not a common Conquest I wou'd gain,
Since Love, as well as Arms, must grace my Triumph.

[Exeunt Lothario and Rossano
Hor.
Two Hours e'er Noon to morrow! ha! e'er that
He sees Calista! oh unthinking Fool—
What if I urg'd her with the Crime and Danger?
If any Spark from Heav'n remain unquench'd
Within her Breast, my Breath perhaps may wake it;
Cou'd I but prosper there, I wou'd not doubt
My Combat with that loud vain-glorious Boaster.
Were you, ye Fair, but cautious whom ye trust,
Did you but think how seldom Fools are just,
So many of your Sex wou'd not in vain,
Of broken Vows and faithless Men complain.
Of all the various Wretches Love has made,
How few have been by Men of Sense betray'd?
Convinc'd by Reason, they your Pow'r confess,
Pleas'd to be happy, as you're pleas'd to bless,
And conscious of your Worth, can never love you less.

[Exit.