how calm he is grown all at once! you would not suppose he was the same person.

Count. Madam

[Confused.

Aman. He does not look on you, as he does on me;

nor kneel, nor plead.

Count. Oh, the deuce take you!
March. What! in confusion, Count?

[Aside.

Aman. But I'll leave you alone with him, and then perhaps he will.

[Going.

Count. No; for mercy sake, don't leave us alone.

[Aside to AMANTHIS. Aman. Poor man, he is afraid of you; but pray be kind to him; and I dare say you will.

[Exit. March. You find at last your falsehood is detected. Count. I purposely exposed it, that you might have the pleasure of forgiving me.

March. Which I will never do.

Count. Then I have been at a great deal of trouble for nothing.

March. So you will find; for the person you love, loves another.

Count. And so does the person you love; and yet I don't reproach you with that.

March. Vain man! you do not know who I love. Count. Nor do you know who I love; but I believe you guess.

March. Leave me.

Count. You'll call me back; but now, positively, if you do, I won't return.

March. To my heart you never shall.

[Going.

Count. [Turning back.] Did you call? 'tis all in vain; I won't come back.

[Exeunt separately.-MARCHIONESS, L., COUNT, R.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-Gardens belonging to the Castle Enter DUKE MURCIA, L., and MARQUIS ALMANZA, R., meeting.

Duke. Nephew, I was going in search of you, for I have something of importance to communicate; and yet I am half afraid to tell it you.

C

Mar. Dear sir, wherefore?

Duke. Because I know your weakness. Have you heard that Cou.tt Valantia is in love with Amanthis?

Mar. I have; she herself told me so.

Duke. But did she tell you that she was in love with him?

Mar. No.

Duke. I thought she would not tell you that.

Mar. But I had every reason, from her behaviour, to .magine he was not indifferent to her.

Duke. And I am certain he is not.
Mar. But who has told you so?
Duke. Himself.

Mar. The weakest authority you can have.

Duke. But she confirmed it.

Mar. Did she? Alas! then my hopes are indeed at an end.

Duke. You know, I suppose, of the first meeting which the Count and she had this morning?

ހ

Mar. Have they had another since?

Duke. Two more; I was present at the last, and am only this moment come from it.

Mar. Do not then conceal from me one single circumstance; but depend upon my firmness, and my courage. Duke. As I was looking out of my window into the garden,-I never listen, but I sometimes hear what people say, when they don't suspect I am near ;-out of my window I saw and heard a quarrel, and an eternal separation take place between the Count and our relation, the Marchioness.

Mar. She then has become acquainted with his attachment to Amanthis? All is confirmed, indeed.

Duke. And, as soon as he had dismissed her in disgrace, I took a walk in the garden, aud from a close arbour I beheld your ward steal past, and the Count close at her elbow; there I overheard, for I detest a listener, I overheard the Count beg for compassion, and remind Amanthis of a promise she had given to make him happy; on which she started and wept, and he fell upon his knees, and would have wept too, if he could; but as he found he could not, he did something equally worthy of a lover; and, drawing his sword, pointed it at his heart. On this she screamed more violently than if the weapon had been aimed at her own; and, seizing hold of it, fell motionless into his arms.

Mar. Oh, heavens !

Duke. As soon as we had recovered her from her swoon, the Count informed me of his love, and that she had given him every hope she would become his wife, but had merely refused to name the time; which had enraged and driven him to such extremes.

Mar. And what said Amanthis?

Duke. She looked at him tenderly, sighed heavily, and shed a shower of tears. Then I, supposing all things happily settled, wished them joy, and came

away.

Mar. Thus at once do I see snatched from me the care, the project, the desire, the hope, and the felicity, of near my whole past life. As her father, as her friend, I disapprove her choice, and will tell her so; but if she persists, I yield; nor shall she ever know I have a less tender regard for her than heretofore. [Exit. Duke. I do think, for their family's sake, (as nobody else will have either of them), the two cousins ought to marry one another.

Enter AMANTHIS, L.

Aman. They told me the Marquis Almanza was here. Duke. He is, I believe, with his cousin, the Marchioness. [AMANTHIS going.] But stop, Amanthis, and tell me, what have you done with Count Valantia?

Aman. Alas, poor man, do not name him to me; I think I shall never recover the fright he gave me in your presence. Is it not wrong that his friends are not informed of this strange disorder in his mind, and desired to keep a guard to watch him?

Duke. A guard! It is the Marquis, I believe, who wants a guard; and now you have put me mind of it, I don't know but I may procure him one.

Aman. What do you mean? Is the Marquis ill? [Alarmed.]

Duke. Yes; in the same way the Count is.
Aman. Oh, let me fly to him. [Going.]
Duke. What, you are not afraid of him?

Amun. No; I will be his guard.

Duke. And do you pretend not to know what is the matter with your two lovers? Do you pretend not to know-that love, love is their disorder?

Aman. 'Love, love,' ay, that's the word the Count continually repeats; and is that the name of his disorder? Duke. Yes.

Aman. And of the Marquis's too?

Duke. Yes.

Aman. And from whence does it proceed?

Duke. From you.

Aman. From me! Impossible! I am very we'l Duke. Are you ignorant, or do you only pretend to be so?

Aman. I am, indeed, ignorant of what you mean.

Duke. Then I'll instruct you. Shame of the Marquis, to teach you most of the arts, and yet leave it to his old uncle to teach you the art of love!

Aman. Well, what is it? I am impatient to know.

Duke. And 'tis so long ago since I felt it, I must recollect a little before I can tell you. Amongst the passions, is one more troublesome than all the rest, and yet more pleasing than any of them: It sometimes burns you with heat, and sometimes freezes you with cold; it creates in your mind a constant desire to be with one particular person; and when you are with them, you generally look like a fool. You think them handsome, though they are frightfully ugly; you think them well shaped, though they are crooked; wise, though they are simpletons; and you hope they love you, though you are sure they do not.

Aman. You need not say any more, sir. I think I have had the disorder. [Looking confused.]

Duke. You have it now.

Aman. Yes, 'tis catching; and, I suppose, I caught it of the Count, and gave it to the Marquis, and so we all three have it.

Duke. And it is you only who can cure them.

Aman. How?

Duke. By marrying one of them.

Aman. Is that the way?

Duke. And now, which of them will you heal?
Aman. Oh! the Marquis. [With warmth.]

Duke. Hear me, madam: I have listened to you some time with patience, but now I can hear no more; the sentiments you entertain for the Marquis are criminal, unless he were your husband.

Aman. And cannot he be so? What prevents it?
Duke. His noble birth, and your mean one.

Aman. My poor father was a gentleman, and the Marquis loved him.

Duke. He now, if living, is an exile, and would disgrace our family.

Aman. I thought not: he was unfortunate; but the

Marquis ever taught me to respect and reverence misfortune.

Duke. Do not flatter yourself with any hope: you were not born for each other; and therefore conceal from him the affection you have betrayed to me, and he, in time, will conquer his.

Aman. No; in the face of heaven and you, I here make a vow, [Kneeling] I never will, never can, conceal from him one emotion of my fluttering heart; that heart, which he, and only he, has taught to beat with truth, with sensibility, with honesty, with love.

Duke. And now, as I have been obliged to hear your resolution, hear mine: if he makes you his wife, he forces me to be no longer his father; no, nor will I be even his uncle, nor even his most distant relation. I undertook to render you happy in another marriage-to teach you how to make the man you pretend to love respectable, and yourself content. I undertook to instruct you how to conceal your thoughts; to laugh when you wished to cry, and cry when you wished to laugh. I would have taught you every scheme, every finesse, every deception; in short, I would have taught you the 'art of love.' [Exit, L.

Aman. Rather let me die in ignorance.

Enter MARQUIS ALMANZA, r.

Oh my dear lord!

Mar. Before I listen to you, Amanthis, I beg you will attend to what I have first to say; nor let me receive from you the smallest interruption.

Aman. You astonish me! the alteration of your voice, the severity of your looks, alarm me. I was coming, joyfully, to open my heart to you; and, for the first time, you are not desirous to be acquainted with it.

Mar. That suspicion, Amanthis, is unjust; 'tis injurious. [Sternly.] You shall know me better.

Aman. Oh! pardon me, my lord; but indeed, the manner in which you speak and look, gives me apprehensions. But proceed; I have done.

Mar. You know, Amanthis, I was a father to you at an age when your understanding could not even thank me for my cares, You are first to learn, there is a sentiment which governs the human heart with more tyranny, more force, more outrage, and yet with more softness than any other. It is called love; and why its name and nature I have thus long concealed from you,