University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—A Wood.
Enter Zamora, in woman's apparel, veiled.
Zamora.
Now, all good spirits that delight to prosper
The undertakings of chaste love, assist me!—
Yonder he comes: I'll rest upon this bank.—
If I can move his curiosity,
The rest may follow.

(She reclines upon the bank, pretending sleep.)
Enter Rolando.
Rolando.
What, hoa! Eugenio!
He is so little apt to play the truant,
I fear some mischief has befallen him. (Sees Zamora.)

What have we here?—a woman!—By this light,
Or rather by this darkness, 'tis a woman!—
Doing no mischief,—only dreaming of it!—
It is the stillest, most inviting spot!
We are alone!—if, without waking her,
I could just brush the fresh dew from her lips,
As the first blush of morn salutes the rose—
Hold, hold, Rolando! art thou not forsworn
If thou but touchest even the finger's end
Of fickle woman?—I have sworn an oath
That female flesh and blood should ne'er provoke me;—
That is, in towns, or cities: I remember
There was a special clause,—or should have been,—
Touching a woman sleeping in a wood:
For tho', to the strict letter of the law,
We bind our neighbours; yet, in our own cause,
We give a liberal and large construction
To its free spirit. Therefore, gentle lady—
(She stirs, as if awaking.)
Hush!—she prevents me. Pardon, gentle fair-one,
That I have broke thus rudely on your slumbers.
But, for the interruption I have caused,
You see me ready, as a gentleman,
To make you all amends.

Zamora.
To a stranger
You offer fairly, sir; but from a stranger—

Rolando.

What shall I say?—Not so; you are no
stranger.

Zamora.
Do you then know me?—Heav'n forbid!

(Aside.)
Rolando.
Too well.

Zamora.
How, sir?

Rolando.
I've known you, lady, 'bove a twelve-month;
And, from report, lov'd you an age before.
Why is it possible you never heard
Of my sad passion?

Zamora.
Never.

Rolando.
You amaze me!

Zamora.
What can he mean? (Aside.)


Rolando.
The sonnets I have written to your beauty
Have kept a paper-mill in full employ:
And then the letters I have giv'n by dozens
Unto your chambermaid!—but I begin,
By this unlook'd-for strangeness you put on,
Almost to think she ne'er delivered them.—

Zamora.
Indeed she never did.—He does but jest. (Aside.)

I'll try. (Aside.)
Perhaps you misdirected them.
What superscription did you put upon them?

Rolando.
What superscription?—None!

Zamora.
None!

Rolando.
Not a tittle!
Think ye, fair lady, I have no discretion?—
I left a blank, that, should they be mislaid,
Or lost, you know—

Zamora.
And in your sonnets, sir,
What title was I honour'd by?

Rolando.
An hundred!—
All but your real one.

Zamora.
What is that? (Quickly.)


Rolando.
She has me.—
Faith, lady, you have run me to a stand.—
I know you not; never before beheld you;
Yet I'm in love with you extempore:
And tho', by a tremendous oath, I'm bound
Never to hold communion with your sex,
Yet has your beauty, and your modesty—
Come, let me see your face—

Zamora.
Nay; that would prove
I had no modesty, perhaps, nor beauty.—
Besides, I too have taken a rash oath,
Never to love but one man—

Rolando.
At a time?

Zamora.
One at all times.

Rolando.
You're right:—I am the man.

Zamora.
You are indeed, sir!

Rolando.
How! now you are jesting!

Zamora.
No, on my soul!—I have sent up to heav'n
A sacred and irrevocable vow;
And if, as some believe, there does exist
A spirit in the waving of the woods,
Life in the leaping torrent, in the hills
And seated rocks a contemplating soul
Brooding on all things round them, to all nature
I here renew the solemn covenant—
Never to love but you, sir.

Rolando.
And who are you?

Zamora.
In birth and breeding, sir, a gentlewoman:
And, but I know the high pitch of your mind
From such low thoughts maintains a tow'ring distance,
I would add, rich; yet is it no misfortune.—
Virtuous, I will say boldly. Of my shape,
Your eyes are your informers. For my face,
I cannot think of that so very meanly,
For you have often prais'd it.

Rolando.
I!—Unveil, then,
That I may praise it once again.

(Volante enters.)
Zamora.
Not now, sir,
We are observed.

Rolando.
(Seeing Volante)
Confusion!—this she-devil!—
'Tis time, then, to redeem my character.—
I tell you, lady, you must be mistaken,
I'm not the man you want. (To Zamora).
Meet me to-night. (Aside.)

Will not that answer serve?—At eight precisely.
(Aside.)
I tell you 'tis not I. (Aloud.)
Here; on this spot.

(Aside.)
Zamora.
I humbly beg your pardon.

Rolando.
Well, you have it;—
Remember.—

Zamora.
Trust me!

[Exit.
Rolando.
A most strange adventure!

Pray, lady, do you know who that importunate
woman in that just left us?

Volante.

No, signor.

Rolando.
(They walk by each other, he whistling, and she humming a tune.)

Have you any business
with me?

Volante.

I wanted to see you, that's all. They
tell me you are the valiant captain that have turn'd

woman-hater, as the boy left off eating nuts because
he met with a sour one.

Rolando.

Would I were in a freemasons' lodge!

Volante.

Why there?

Rolando.

They never admit women.

Volante.

It must be a dull place.

Rolando.

Exceeding quiet.—How shall I shake
off this gadfly?—Did you ever see a man mad?

Volante.

Never.

Rolando.

I shall be mad presently.

Volante.

I hope it wont be long first. I can
wait an hour or so.

Rolando.

I tell you I shall be mad!

Volante.

Will it be of the merry sort?

Rolando.

Stark staring, maliciously, mischievously
mad!

Volante.

Nay, then I can't think of leaving you;
for you'll want a keeper.

Rolando.

Would thou hadst one!—If it were valiant
now to beat a woman—

Volante.

Well! why don't you begin? Pshaw!
you have none of the right symptoms: you don't
stare with your eyes, nor foam at the mouth.—
Mad, indeed! You're as much in your sober senses
as I am!

Rolando.

Then am I mad incurably! Will you
go forward?

Volante.

No.

Rolando.

Backward?

Volante.

No.

Rolando.

Will you stay where you are?

Volante.

No. Rank and file, captain:—I mean
to be one of your company.

Rolando.

Impossible! You're not tall enough for
any thing but a drummer: and then the noise of
your tongue would drown the stoutest sheepskin in
Christendom.

Volante.

Can you find any employment for me?

Rolando.

No: you are fit for nothing but to
beat hemp in a workhouse, to the tuneful accompaniment
of a beadle's whip.

Volante.

I could be content to be so employed, if
I was sure you would reap the full benefit of my
labour.

Rolando.

Nay, then I'll go another way to work
with you, madam.—What, hoa, Eugenio! serjeant!
corporal!

Volante.

Nay, then 'tis time to scamper: he's
bringing his whole regiment on me!

[Exit.
Rolando.
She's gone; and has left me happy.—
But this other:—How is her absence irksome!
There is such magick in her graceful form,
Such sweet persuasion in her gentle tongue,
As thaws my firm resolves, and changes me
To that same soft and pliant thing I was
E'er yet a haughty woman's scorn had stung me.

[Exit.