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THE SPANISH STUDENT.
Students of Alcald.
Gentlemen of Madrid.
Count of the Gipsies.
A young Gipsy.
A Gipsy girl.
4 poor girl.
The Padre Cura's niece,
SCENE I. . The Count OF LARA'S chambers. Night. The Count in his dressing-gown,
smoking and conversing with Don CARLOS.
LARA.—You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos;
How happened it?
Pray, who was there?
Why, all the town and court.
And Doña Serafina, and her cousins.
It was a dull affair ;
Who looks intently where he knows she is not!
As lightly as a sunbeam on the water.
I think the girl extremely beautiful.
I saw her in the Prado yesterday.
As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise.
And be no more a saint?
Why do you ask?
And, though she is a virgin outwardly,
On the 'sutside, and on the inside Venus!
She is as virtuous as she is fair.
There's not a virtuous woman in Madrid,
A model for her virtue?
And therefore won
The only virtue that a Gipsy prizes
She turned upon him with a look of scorn,
And smote him in the face!
And does that prove
When he thinks conquest easy. I believe
And, like the diamond in the dark, retains
I am sure of it.
And fight the battles of your Dulcinea.
You will not be persuaded.
Yes; persuade me. Don CARLOS.—No one so deaf as he who will not hear! LARA.-No one so blind as he who will not see! DON CARLOS.-And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams, And greater faith in woman.
: None, my lord.
She is not to be purchased by your gold.
Pray, dost thou know Victorian?
Yes, my lord;
I saw him buy
One so like it,
It is well.
SCENE II. A street in Madrid. Enter CHISPA, followed by musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars,
and other instruments. CHISPA.-Abernuncio Satanas ! 21 and a plague on all lovers who ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here's my master Victorian, yesterday a cowkeeper, and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale ; for, as the abbot sings, so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all this serenading cease. Ay, marry! marry! marry!' Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daughter! And, of a truth, there is something more in matrimony than the wedding-ring. [To the musicians.] And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray, walk this way, and don't hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend?
FIRST MUSICIAN.–Geronimo Gil, at your service.
CHisPA.—Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Gerá nimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee?
FIRST MUSICIAN.-Why so?
CHISPA. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern; and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that?
FIRST MUSICIAN.–An Aragonese bagpipe.
CHISPA.—Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked a maravedí for playing, and ten for leaving off ?
FIRST MUSICIAN.—No, your honour.
CHISPA. I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that soars up to my lady's window like the song of a swallow. And you others?
OTHER MUSICIANS.—We are the singers, please your honour.
CHISPA.—You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in the cathedral of Córdova? Four men can make but little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me along the garden-wall. That is the way my master climbs to the lady's window. It is by the vicar's skirts that the devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make no noise. [Exeunt.
Descends the tranquil moon! Like thistle-down
Får in yon azure deeps,
Far down yon western steeps,
Where yonder woodbine creeps,
Tell her, her lover keeps
(Enter VICTORIAN by the balcony.) VICTORIAN.—Poor little dove! thou tremblest like a leaf!, PRECIOSA.--I am so frightened ! 'Tis for thee I tremble!
I hate to have thee climb that wall by night!
Did no one see thee? VICTORIAN.
None, my love, but thou, PRECIOSA.--"Tis very dangerous; and when thou art gone
I chide myself for letting thee come here
Since yesterday I have no news from thee.
Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa,
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now.