San. I have but one thing more of thine. [Shewing his cudgel.] I own 'tis the top of all thy presents, and might be useful to me; but that thou may'st have nothing to upbraid me with, even take it again with the rest of them.
[Lifting it up to strike her, she leaps about his neck.
Jacin. Ah cruel Sancho!—Now beat me, Sancho, do.
San. Rather, like Indian beggars, beat my precious self.
[Throws away his stick, and embraces her.
Rather let infants blood about the streets,
Rather let all the wine about the cellar,
Rather let——Oh Jacinta——thou hast o'ercome.
How foolish are the great resolves of man!
Resolves, which we neither wou'd keep, nor can.
When those bright eyes in kindness please to shine,
Their goodness I must needs return with mine:
Bless my Jacinta in her Sancho's arms——
Jacin. And I my Sancho with Jacinta's charms.
[Exeunt.