little now and then, it was soon over, for we were never fond enough to quarrel, and when the good woman died, why, why-I had as lieve she had lived, and I wish every widower in Seville could say the same-I shall now go and get the key of this dressing room-so, good son, if you have any lecture in support of disobedience to give your sister, it must be brief; so make the best of your time, d'ye hear? [Exit.

Ferd. I fear, indeed, my friend Antonio has little to hope for however Louisa has firmness, and my father's anger will probably only increase her affection. In our intercourse with the world, it is natural for us to dislike those who are innocently the cause of our distress; but in the heart's attachment, a woman never likes a man with ardour till she has suffered for his sake; [Noise.] soh! what bustle is here! between my father and the Duenna too-I'll e'en get out of the way.

[Exit.

Enter DON JEROME with a Letter, pulling in the

DUENNA.

Jerome. I'm astonish'd! I'm thunder-struck! here's treachery and conspiracy with a vengeance! you, Antonio's creature, and chief manager of this plot for my daughter's eloping! you, that I placed here as a scarecrow?

Duenna. What?

Jerome. A scarecrow-to prove a decoy-duckwhat have you to say for yourself?

Duenna. Well, sir, since you have forced that letter from me, and discovered my real sentiments, I scorn to renounce them.-I am Antonio's friend, and it was my intention that your daughter should have served you as all such old tyrannical sots should be served-I delight in the tender passions, and would befriend all under their influence.

Jerome. The tender passions! yes, they would be

come those impenetrable features!-why, thou deceitful hag! I placed thee as a guard to the rich blossoms of my daughter's beauty-I thought that dragon's front of thine would cry aloof to the sons of gallantry-steel traps and spring guns seemed writ in every wrinkle of it—but you shall quit my house this instant-the tender passions, indeed! go, thou wanton sybil, thou amorous woman of Endor, go!

Duenna. You base, scurrilous, old-but I won't demean myself by naming what you are—yes, savage, I'll leave your den; but I suppose you don't mean to detain my apparel-I may have my things, I pre

sume?

Jerome. I took you, mistress, with your wardrobe on-what have you pilfered, heh ?

Duenna. Sir, I must take leave of my mistress, she has valuables of mine; besides, my cardinal and veil are in her room.

Jerome. Your veil forsooth! what, do you dread being gazed at? or are you afraid of your complexion? well, go take your leave, and get your veil and cardinal! soh! you quit the house within these five minutes-In-in-quick [Exit DUENNA.] Here was a precious plot of mischief!-these are the comforts daughters bring us!

AIR.

If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life,
No
pear e shall you know, tho' you've buried your wife,
At twenty she mocks at the duty you taught her.
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.

Sighing and whining,
Dying and pining,

Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

When scarce in their teens, they have wit to perplex us, With letters and lovers for ever they vex us,

While each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought her, Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

Wrangling and jangling,
Flouting and pouting,

Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

Enter LOUISA, dressed as the DUENNA, with Cardinal and Veil, seeming to cry.

Jerome. This way, mistress, this way-what, I warrant, a tender parting; soh! tears of turpentine down those deal cheeks-Ay, you may well hide your head-yes, whine till your heart breaks; but I'll not hear one word of excuse-so you are right to be dumb, this way, this way. [Exeunt.

Enter DUENNA.

Duenna. So speed you well, sagacious Don Jerome! Oh, rare effects of passion and obstinacy-now shall I try whether I can't play the fine lady as well as my mistress, and if I succeed, I may be a fine lady for the rest of my life-I'll lose no time to equip myself. [Exit.

SCENE IV.

The Court before DON JEROME's House.

Enter DON JEROME and Louisa.

Jerome. Come, mistress, there is your way-The world lies before you, so troop, thou antiquated Eve,

thou original sin-hold, yonder is some fellow skulking, perhaps it is Antonio-go to him, d'ye hear, and tell him to make you amends, and as he has got you turned away, tell him I say it is but just he should take you himself, go. [Exit LOUISA.] Soh! I am rid of her, thank Heaven! and now I shall be able to keep my oath, and confine my daughter with better security. [Exit

SCENE V

The Piazza.

Enter CLARA and her MAID.

Maid. But where, madam, is it you intend to go? Clara. Any where to avoid the selfish violence of my mother-in-law, and Ferdinand's insolent importunity.

Maid. Indeed, ma'am, since we have profited by Don Ferdinand's key, in making our escape, I think we had best find him, if it were only to thank him. Clara. No-he has offended me exceedingly.

Enter LOUISA.

[Retire.

Louisa. So I have succeeded in being turned out of doors-but how shall I find Antonio? I dare not enquire for him, for fear of being discovered; I would send to my friend Clara, but that I doubt her prudery would condemn me.

Maid. Then suppose, ma'am, you were to try if your friend Donna Louisa would not receive you

Clara. No, her notions of filial duty are so severe, she would certainly betray me.

Louisa. Clara is of a cold temper, and would think this step of mine highly forward.

Clara. Louisa's respect for her father is so great, she would not credit the unkindness of mine.

[LOUISA turns, and sees CLARA and MAID. Louisa. Ha! who are those? sure one is Claraif it be, I'll trust her-Clara ! [Advances. Clara. Louisa! and in masquerade too!

Louisa You will be more surprised when I tell you, that I have run away from my father.

Clara. Surprised indeed! and I should certainly chide you most horridly, only that I have just rum away from mine.

Louisa. My dear Clara !

[Embrace. Clara. Dear sister truant! and whither are you going?

Louisa. To find the man I love, to be sure-And, I presume, you would have no aversion to meet with my brother?

Clara. Indeed I should-he has behaved so ill to me, I don't believe I shall ever forgive him.

AIR-CLARA.

When sable night, each drooping plant restoring,
Wept o'er the flowers her breath did cheer,
As some sad widow o'er her babe deploring,
Wakes its beauty with a tear ;

When all did sleep, whose weary hearts did borrow
One hour from love and care to rest,

Lo! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow,
My lover caught me to his breast;

He vow d he came to save me

From those who would enslave me!

Then kneeling,

Kisses stealing,

Endless faith he swore,