Ask not his name—yet why should I conceal it,
Whose honour may not leave a single chink
For doubt to nestle in?—Sir, ’twas Don Mendo,
Your minister; who, when his idle suit
Prosper’d not in my sister’s ear, found means,
Feeing one of the household to his purpose,
To get admittance to her room by night;
Where, swearing marriage soon should sanction love,
He went away the victor of an honour
That like a villain he had come to steal;