Don H. Call for her woman.
Ped. Flora! Flora!
Enter Flora.
Flo. My good angel guard me! What's your pleasure, sir?
Don H. Where's your mistress, hussy?
Flo. She told me, sir, about half an hour since,
She would go down into the garden. [Exit Flora.
Don H. My shame is certain. Ah! the sad condition
Of us men of honour! how unequally
Our crosses and our comforts mingled are!
Our orphan sisters are no sooner grown
Above the follies of their childish age
(During which season custom does exact
Our watchful caution over all their actions),
But they are grafted on some stranger stock,
Where they do change both their abodes and names
Without the least reflection on their kindness,
Who pain'd themselves to cultivate their youth;
Or else remain to exercise our fears.
O unjust heavens! why suffer you that they,
Who to our joys of life such bubbles are,
Should add such weight unto our griefs and care?
Ah, Porcia, Porcia!.
Enter Don Carlos.
Don C. Don Henrique, if I am not much mistaken,
I have in this short time made a great progress
Towards your redress: I come from harbouring
The villains who have done you this affront.
Cam. [behind.] It imports to be attentive now.