Tor. What have I lost by my forefathers' fault!
Why was not I the twentieth by descent
From a long restive race of droning kings?
Love! what a poor omnipotence hast thou,
When gold and titles buy thee?
Leo. [Sighs.] Oh, my torture!—
Tor. Might I presume,—but, oh, I dare not hope
That sigh was added to your alms for me!
Leo. I give you leave to guess, and not forbid you
To make the best construction for your love:
Be secret and discreet; these fairy favours
Are lost, when not concealed[1].—provoke not Bertran.—
Retire: I must no more but this,—Hope, Torrismond.[Exit.
Tor. She bids me hope; oh heavens, she pities me!
And pity still foreruns approaching love,
410 As lightning does the thunder! Tune your harps,
Ye angels, to that sound; and thou, my heart,
Make room to entertain thy flowing joy.
Hence, all my griefs and every anxious care;
One word, and one kind glance, can cure despair.[Exit.
SCENE II.—A Chamber. A Table and Wine set out.
Enter Lorenzo.
Lor. This may hit; 'tis more than barely possible; for friars have free admittance into every house. This jacobin, whom I have sent to, is her confessor; and who can suspect a man of such reverence for a pimp? I'll try for once; I'll bribe him high; for commonly none love money better than they, who have made a vow of poverty.
Enter Servant.
Serv. There's a huge, fat, religious gentleman coming up, sir. He says he's but a friar, but he's big enough to be a pope; his gills are as rosy as a turkey cock's; his great belly walks in state before him, like an harbinger; and his gouty legs come limping after it: Never was such a ton of devotion seen.