Don Z. I must confess, Chichon, the very smell
Of sweet Valencia has e'en reviv'd my spirits.
There's no such pleasure as to suck and breathe
One's native air.
Chi. Chiefly after being in so fair a way,
As you, of never breathing any more!
Don Z. Prythee, no more of that; since I have forgot it,
Methinks thou easily may'st.
Chi. Faith, hardly, sir, whilst still your ghastly face
Doth bear such dismal memorandums of it,
Apter to raise inquisitiveness in those
Knowing nothing of the matter, than t' allay
Remembrance in partakers.
Don Z. Heaven shield us from Donna Blanca's queries!
No matter for the rest.
Chi. You would not wish to find her so unconcern'd;
I'm sure you would not: faith, I long to hear
Th' ingenious defeats, I make account,
You are prepar'd to give to her suspicions.
Don Z. Let me alone for that: but, on thy life,
Be sure that nothing be screw'd out of thee,
Neither by her nor by her sly Francisca.
Chi. Be you, sir, sure, that from your true Chichon
They'll know no more to-day, than yesterday
They did; nor thence more to the world's end,
Than what they did before we left Madrid.
Don Z. Truly, Chichon, we needs must find the means
To get a sight of her this very night:
I die, if I should miss it.
Chi. Last week left gasping for Elvira's love.
And scarce reviv'd, when presently expiring
For Blanca's again! I did not think Don Cupid
Had been a merchant of such quick returns.