Don Ant. Well, my Louisa, any news since I left you?
Don. Louisa. None. The messenger is not yet returned from my father.
Don Ant. Well, I confess, I do not perceive what we are to expect from him.
Don. Louisa. I shall be easier, however, in having made the trial: I do not doubt your sincerity, Antonio; but there is a chilling air around poverty, that often kills affection, that was not nursed in it. If we would make love our household god, we had best secure him a comfortable roof.
SONG.—Don Antonio.
How oft, Louisa, hast thou told,
(Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown,)
Thou wouldst not lose Antonio's love
To reign the partner of a throne!
And by those lips that spoke so kind,
And by that hand I've press'd to mine,
To be the lord of wealth and power,
By heavens, I would not part with thine!
Then how, my soul, can we be poor,
Who own what kingdoms could not buy?
Of this true heart thou shalt be queen,
In serving thee, a monarch I.
Thus uncontroll'd, in mutual bliss,
I rich in love's exhaustless mine,
Do thou snatch treasures from my lips,
And I'll take kingdoms back from thine!
Enter MAID with a letter.
Don. Louisa. My father's answer, I suppose.
Don Ant. My dearest Louisa, you may be assured that it contains nothing but threats and reproaches.