whole matter comes out; her resentment for Antonio’s ill usage has made her sensible of Isaac’s kindness—yes, yes, it is all plain enough. Well. I am not married yet, though with a man who, I am convinced, adores me.—Yes, yes, I dare say Isaac is very fond of her. But I shall anxiously expect your answer, in which, should I be so fortunate as to receive your consent, you will make completely happy your ever affectionate daughter,

Louisa.

My consent! to be sure she shall have it! Egad, I was never better pleased—I have fulfilled my resolution—I knew I should. Oh, there’s nothing like obstinacy! Lewis!

[Calls.

Re-enter Servant.

Let the man who brought the last letter, wait; and get me a pen and ink below.—[Exit Servant.] I am impatient to set poor Louisa’s heart at rest. Holloa! Lewis! Sancho!

[Calls.

Enter Servants.

See that there be a noble supper provided in the saloon to-night; serve up my best wines, and let me have music, d’ye hear?

Ser. Yes, sir.

Don Jer. And order all my doors to be thrown open; admit all guests, with masks or without masks.—[Exeunt Servants.] I’faith, we’ll have a night of it! and I’ll let them see how merry an old man can be.

Song.

Oh, the days when I was young,
    When I laugh’d in fortune’s spite;
Talk’d of love the whole day long,
    And with nectar crown’d the night!

Then it was, old Father Care,
    Little reck’d I of thy frown;
Half thy malice youth could bear,
    And the rest a bumper drown.

Truth, they say, lies in a well,
    Why, I vow I ne’er could see;
Let the water-drinkers tell,
    There it always lay for me.
For when sparkling wine went round,
    Never saw I falsehood’s mask;
But still honest truth I found
    In the bottom of each flask.

True, at length my vigour’s flown,
    I have years to bring decay;
Few the locks that now I own,
    And the few I have are grey.
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast,
    While thy spirits do not tire;
Still beneath thy age’s frost
    Glows a spark of youthful fire.

Exit.

Scene II.—The New Piazza.

Enter Don Ferdinand and Lopez.

Don Ferd. What, could you gather no tidings of her? nor guess where she was gone? O Clara! Clara!

Lop. In truth, sir, I could not. That she was run away from her father, was in everybody’s mouth; and that Don Guzman was in pursuit of her, was also a very common report. Where she was gone, or what was become of her, no one could take upon them to say.

Don Ferd. ’Sdeath and fury, you blockhead! she can’t be out of Seville.

Lop. So I said to myself, sir. ’Sdeath and fury, you blockhead, says I, she can’t be out of Seville. Then some said, she had hanged herself for love; and others have it, Don Antonio had carried her off.

Don Ferd. ’Tis, false, scoundrel! no one said that.