Blan. [Smiling a little.] Well, hast done, Francisca?
Fran. Madam, I have.
Blan. Then letting pass
Thy fine reflections politic, now vented
To shew thy skill in courts, I'll tell thee freely,
I'm not transported in my jealousy
So far beyond the bounds of reason, as
Not to know well the difference betwixt
Such escapades of youth, as only spring
From warmth of blood or gales of vanity,
And such engagements as do carry with them
Dishonour unto those, whose quality
And love leave little to the serious part,
Once embark'd by them in a gallantry.
Fran. I see the clouds disperse. There's no such art
Of compassing one's ends with those above us,
As that of working them into good humour
By things brought in by the by. [Aside.
Why, surely, madam, unless anger lend you
Its spectacles to see things, I cannot think
You judge Don Zancho's fault to be any other
Than of the first kind, so well stated by you.
Blan. Francisca, were I otherwise persuaded,
I am not of an humour that could suffer
Such parleys for him, much less intercession;
But since, upon reflection, I find cause
To think what he has done a sally only
Of youth and vanity, when I shall find him
Sufficiently mortified, I may pardon him.
Fran. Heavens bless so sweet a temper! but, madam,
Have a care, I beseech you, of one thing.
Fran. That, whilst your pride of heart
Prolongs his readmission, his despair
Urge him not to some precipitate attempt
That may expose your honour, safe as yet.
You see what danger the last night's distemper
Had like t' have brought you into: transported lovers,
Like angels fallen from their bliss, grow devils.
Blan. What, would you have me appear so flexible?
Is't not enough
I tell you I may pardon him in due time?
Fran. Good madam, be advis'd: I do not press you
For his sake, but your own. Trust my experience,
To women nought's so fatal as suspense;
Whose smartest actions ne'er did cast such blot
On honour as this—shall I? shall I not?