Oh, were that all! my honest corpse must lie [Exit. SCENE II-A Night-Scene of the Mufti's Garden, where an Arbour is discovered. Enter ANTONIO. Ant. She names herself Morayma; the Mufti's only daughter, and a virgin! This is the time and place that she appointed in her letter, yet she comes not. Why, thou sweet delicious creature, why torture me with thy delay! Dar'st thou be false to thy assignation? What, in the cool and silence of the night, and to a new lover?---Pox on the hypocrite, thy father, for instructing thee so little in the sweetest point of his religion.---Hark, I hear the rustling of her silk mantle. Now she comes, now she comes--no, hang it, that was but the whistling of the wind through the orange-trees.--Now, again, I hear the pit-a-pat of a pretty foot through the dark alley ---No, 'tis the son of a mare, that's broken loose, and munching upon the melons.---Oh, the misery of an expecting lover! Well, I'll e'en despair, go into my arbour, and try to sleep; in a dream I shall enjoy her, in despite of her. [Goes into the Arbour, and lies down. Enter JOHAYMA, wrapt up in a Moorish mantle. Joh. Thus far my love has carried me, almost without my knowledge whither I was going. Shall I go on? shall I discover myself? What an injury am I doing to my old husband! Yet what injury, since he's old, and has three wives, and six concu bines, besides me! 'tis but stealing my own tithe from him. [She comes a little nearer the Arbour. Ant. [Raising himself a little, and looking.] At last 'tis she; this is no illusion, I am sure; 'tis a true she-devil of flesh and blood, and she could ne ver have taken a fitter time to tempt me. Joh He's young and handsome Ant. Yes, well enough, I thank nature. [Aside. Joh. And I am yet neither old nor ugly: Sure he will not refuse me. Ant. No; thou may'st pawn thy maidenhead on't, he wont. up [Aside. Joh. The Mufti would feast himself upon other women, and keep me fasting. Ant. O, the holy curmudgeon! [Aside. Joh. Would preach abstinence, and practise luxury! but, I thank my stars, I have edified more by his example than his precept. Ant. [Aside.] Most divinely argued; she's the best casuist in all Africk. [He rushes out, and embraces her.] I can hold no longer from embracing thee, my dear Morayma; the old unconscionable whoreson, thy father, could he expect cold chastity from a child of his begetting? Joh. What nonsense do you talk? do you take me for the Mufti's daughter? Ant. Why, are you not, madam? [Throwing off her barnus. Joh. I find you had an appointment with Morayma. Ant. By all that's good, the nauseous wife! [Aside, Joh. What! you are confounded, and stand mute? Ant. Somewhat nonplust, I confess, to hear you deny your name so positively. Why, are not you Morayma, the Mufti's daughter? Did not I see you with him? did not he present me to you? were you not so charitable as to give me money? ay, and to tread upon my foot, and squeeze my hand too, if I may be so bold to remember you of past favours? Joh. And you see I am come to make them good; but I am neither Morayma, nor the Mufti's daughter. Ant. Nay, I know not that: but I am sure he is old enough to be your father; and either father, or reverend father, I heard you call him. Joh. Once again, how came you to name Morayma? Ant. Another damned mistake of mine: for, asking one of my fellow-slaves, who were the chief ladies about the house, he answered me, Morayma and Johayma; but she, it seems, is his daughter, with a pox to her, and you are his beloved wife. Joh. Say your beloved mistress, if you please; for that's the title I desire. This moonshine grows offensive to my eyes; come, shall we walk into the arbour? there we may rectify all mistakes. Ant. That's close and dark. Joh. And are those faults to lovers? Ant. But there I cannot please myself with the sight of your beauty. Joh. Perhaps you may do better. Ant. But there's not a breath of air stirring. Joh. The breath of lovers is the sweetest air; but you are fearful. Ant. I am considering indeed, that, if I am taken with you Joh. The best way to avoid it is to retire, where we may not be discovered. Ant. Where lodges your husband? Joh. Just against the face of this open walk. Ant. Then he has seen us already, for aught I know. Joh. You make so many difficulties, I fear I am displeasing to you. Ant. [Aside.] If Morayma comes, and takes me in the arbour with her, I have made a fine exchange of that diamond for this pebble. Joh. You are much fallen off, let me tell you, from the fury of your first embrace. Ant. I confess I was somewhat too furious at first, but you will forgive the transport of my passion; now I have considered it better, I have a qualm of conscience. Joh. Of conscience! why, what has conscience to do with two young lovers that have opportu nity? Ant. Why, truly, conscience is something to blame for interposing in our matters: but how can I help it, if I have a scruple to betray my master? Joh. There must be something more in't; for your conscience was very quiet when you took me for Morayma. Ant. I grant you, madam, when I took you for his daughter; for then I might have made you an honourable amends by marriage. Joh. You Christians are such peeking sinners! you tremble at a shadow in the moonshine. Ant. And you Africans are such termagants, you stop at nothing. I must be plain with you,-you are married, and to a holy man, the head of your religion: go back to your chamber; go back, I say, and consider of it for this night, as I will do on my part I will be true to you, and invent all the arguments I can to comply with you; and who knows but at our next meeting the sweet devil may have more power over me? I am true flesh and blood, I can tell you that for your comfort. Joh. Flesh without blood, I think thou art; or, if any, it is as cold as that of fishes. But I'll teach thee, to thy cost, what vengeance is in store for refusing a lady who has offered thee her love.-Help, help, there ! will nobody come to my assistance ? Ant. What do you mean, madam? for heaven's sake, peace; your husband will hear you; think of your own danger, if you will not think of mine. Joh. Ungrateful wretch, thou deservest no pity ! Help, help, husband, or I shall be ravished! the villain will be too strong for me! Help, help, for pity of a poor distressed creature! Ant. Then I have nothing but impudence to assist me: I must drown her clamour, whatever comes on't. [He takes out his Flute, and plays as loud as he can possibly, and she continues crying out. Enter the MUFTI, in his Night-gown, and two Ser roants. Muf. O thou villain, what horrible impiety art thou committing! what, ravishing the wife of my bosom!-Take him away; ganch him*, impale him, rid the world of such a monster! [ Servants seize him. Ant. Mercy, dear master, mercy! hear me first, and after, if I have deserved hanging, spare me not. What have you seen to provoke you to this cruelty? Muf. I have heard the outcries of my wife; the bleatings of the poor innocent lamb.-Seen nothing, sayst thou? If I see the lamb lie bleeding, and the butcher by her with his knife drawn, and bloody, is not that evidence sufficient of the murder? I come too late, and the execution is already done. * A horrid Moorish punishment. The criminal was precipitated from a high tower upon iron scythes and hooks, which pro jected from its side. This scene Settle introduces in one of his tragedies. |