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Scow'ring the watch grows out-of-fashion wit:
Now we fet up for tilting in the pit,
Where 'tis agreed by bullies, chicken-hearted,
To fright the ladies firft, and then be parted.
A fair attempt has twice or thrice been made,
To hire night-murd'rers, and make death a trade.
When murder's out, what vice can we advance?
Unless the new-found pois'ning trick of France:
And when their art of rats-bane we have got,
By way of thanks, we'll fend them o'er our plot.

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THE

SPANISH FRYAR.

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The lines diftinguished by inverted comas, thus,' are omitted in the reprefentation.

A C T I.

Alphonfo and Pedro meet, with Soldiers on each fide,

Drums, &c.

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Ped. The queen of Arragon.

Alph. Pedro;-how goes the night?

Ped. She wears apace.

Alph. Then welcome, day-light; we shall have warmn

The Moor will gage

His utmost forces on this next affault,

To win a queen and kingdom.

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Ped. Pox o' this lion-way of wooing, though:

Is the queen ftirring yet?

Alph. She has not been a-bed, but in her chapel All night devoutly watch'd, and brib'd the faints With vows for her deliverance.

Ped. Oh, Alphonfo,

I fear they come too late: her father's crimes
Sit heavy on her, and weigh down her prayers.
A crown ufurp'd, a lawful king depos'd,

In bondage held, debarr'd the common light;
His children murder'd, and his friends destroy'd;
What can we lefs expect than what we feel?
And what we fear will follow.

Alph. Heav'n avert it.

Ped.

Ped. Then heav'n must not be heav'n. Judge the event
By what has pais'd. Th' ufurper 'joy'd not long
His ill-got crown! 'Tis true, he dy'd in peace:
(Unriddle that, ye Pow'rs ;) but left his daughter,
Our prefent queen, engag'd upon his death-bed,
To marry with young Bertran, whofe curs'd father
Had help'd to make him great.

Hence, you well know, this fatal war arose;
Because the Moor Abdallah, with whofe troops
Th' ufurper gain'd the kingdom, was refus'd,
And, as an infidel, his love defpis'd.

Alph. Well, we are soldiers, Pedro, and, like lawyers, Plead for our pay.

Ped. A good caufe would do well though;

It gives my fword an edge. You fee this Bertran
Has now three times been beaten by the Moors:
What hope we have is in young Torrifmond,
Your brother's fon.

Alph. He's a fuccessful warrior,

And has the foldiers hearts. Upon the skirts
⚫ Of Arragon our fquander'd troops he rallies :'
Our watchmen from the tow'rs with longing eyes.
Expect his swift arrival.

I

Ped. It must be swift, or it will come too late.
Alph. No more:

-Duke Bertran.

Enter Bertran attended.

Bert. Relieve the centries that have watch'd all night, [To Ped,] Now, Colonel, have you difpos'd your men, you Iftand idle here?

That

Ped. Mine are drawn off,

To take a short repofe.

Bert. Short let it be,

For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more,
'There has been heard a diftant humming noife,
Like bees difturb'd, and arming in their hives.
What courage in our foldiers? Speak what hope?
Ped. As much as when phyficians fhake their heads,
And bid their dying patient think of heaven.

Our walls are thinly mann'd: our best men flain : The reft, an heartlefs number, fpent with watching, • And harrafs'd out with duty."

Bert. Good-night all then.

Ped.

3

Ped. Nay, for my part, 'tis but a fingle life
I have to lofe: I'll plant my colours down
In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot;
Say a fhort foldier's pray'r, to spare the trouble
Of my few friends above; and then expect

The next fair bullet.

6

Alph. Never was known a night of fuch diftraction;
Noife fo confus'd and dreadful; juftling crowds,
That run, and know not whither; torches gliding,
Like meteors, by each other in the streets.

• Ped. I met a reverend, fat, old, gouty fryar;
With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin
• Might reft upon't: a true son of the church;
Fresh colour'd, and well thriven on his trade,
Came puffing with his greafy bald-pate choir,
And fumbling o'er his beads, in fuch an agony,
He told them falfe for fear: about his neck
'There hung a wench, the label of his function,
• Whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly.
It seems the holy ftallion durft not score
Another fin before he left the world."

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Enter a Captain.

Capt. To arm's, my Lord, to arms!

From the Moors' camp the noife grows louder still:
Rattling of armour, trumpets, drums and atabals;
And fometimes peals of fhouts that rend the heav'ns,
Like victory: the groans again, and howlings,
Like thofe of vanquifh'd men; but every echo
• Goes fainter off; and dies in diftant founds.'
Bert. Some falfe attack: expect on th' other fide:
One to the gunners on St. Jago's tow'r; bid them, for
Level their cannon lower: on my foul,

They're all corrupted with the gold of Barbary

To carry over, and not hurt the Moor.

Enter a fecond Captain.

[fhame,

2d Capt. My Lord, here's fresh intelligence arriv'd; Our army, led by valiant Torrifmond,

Is now in hot engagement with the Moors;

'Tis faid, within their trenches.

Bert. I think all fortune is referv'd for him.

He might have fent us word though;

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And then we could have favour'd his attempt

With fallies from the town

Alph. It could not be :

We were fo close block'd

up, that none could peep

Upon the walls and live; but yet 'tis time

Bert. No, 'tis too late; I will not hazard it:

On pain of death, let no man dare to fally.

Ped. [Afide.] Oh, envy, envy, how it works within How now! what means this fhow?

Alph. 'Tis a proceffion :

The queen is going to the great cathedral,
Το pray for our fuccefs against the Moors.

[him!

Ped. Very good: the ufurps the throne; keeps the old king in prifon; and, at the fame time, is praying for a bleffing: Oh, religion and roguery, how they go together! [Shout and a flourish of trumpets.

Aproceffion of priests and chorifters in white, with tapers, followed by the queen and ladies, goes over the ftage: the chorifters finging.

Look down, ye bless'd above, look down,

• Behold our weeping matrons tears,

1

Behold our tender virgins fears,

And with fuccefs our armies crown.

Look down, ye blefs'd above, look down:
'Oh, fave us, fave us, and our state restore;
For pity, pity, pity, we implore;
For pity, pity, pity, we implore.

[The proceffion goes off, and fbout within.

Enter Lorenzo, who kneels to Alphonzo.

Bert. [To Alph.] A joyful cry; and fee your fon, Lorenzo: good news, kind Heav'n!

Alph. [To Lor.] Oh, welcome, welcome! Is the Gene-
ral fafe?

How near our army? When shall we be fuccour'd ?
Or, are we fuccour'd? Are the Moors remov'd?
Anfwer these questions first, and then a thousand more;
Answer them all together.

Lor. Yes, when I have a thousand tongues, I will.
The General's well; his army too is fafe

As victory can make them: the Moors' king

Is fafe enough, I warrant him, for one.

At

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