Act 1 — ACT I. SCENE I.
Reading edition
The neighbourhood of Madrid.
Enter Roderigo, Louis, and Diego.
Louis. Roderigo!
Diego. Art mad?
Rod. Yes, not so much with wine: it’s as rare to see a Spaniard a drunkard as a German sober, an Italian no whoremonger, an Englishman to pay his debts. I am no borachio;[170] sack, malaga, nor canary, breeds the calenture in my brains; mine eye mads me, not my cups.
Louis. What wouldst have us do?
Rod. Do?
Diego. So far as ’tis fit for gentlemen[171] we’ll venture.
Rod. I ask no more. I ha' seen a thing has bewitched me; a delicate body, but this in the waist [shewing the size by a sign]; foot and leg tempting; the face I had [only] a glimpse of, but the fruit must needs be delicious, the tree being so beautiful.
Louis. Prithee, to the point.
Rod. Here ’tis: an old gentleman—no matter 104who he is—an old gentlewoman—I ha' nothing to do with her—but a young creature that follows them, daughter or servant, or whatsoever she be, her I must have: they are coming this way; shall I have her? I must have her.
Diego. How, how?
Louis. Thou speakest impossibilities.
Rod. Easy, easy, easy! I'll seize the young girl; stop you the old man; stay you the old woman.
Louis. How then?
Rod. I'll fly off with the young bird, that’s all; many of our Spanish gallants act these merry parts every night. They are weak and old, we young and sprightly: will you assist me?
Louis. Troth, Roderigo, any thing in the way of honour.
Rod. For a wench, man, any course is honourable.
Louis. Nay, not any; her father, if he be[172] her father, may be noble.
Rod. I am as noble.
Louis. Would the adventure were so!
Rod. Stand close, they come.
Enter Pedro, Maria, and Clara.
Ped. ’Tis late; would we were in Madrill![173]
Mar. Go faster, my lord.
Ped. Clara, keep close.
[Louis and Diego hold Pedro and Maria,
while Roderigo seizes Clara.
Cla. Help, help, help!
Rod. Are you crying out? I'll be your midwife.
[Exit, bearing off Clara.
Ped. What mean you, gentlemen?
105Mar. Villains! thieves! murderers!
Ped. Do you [not] know me? I am De Cortes,
Pedro de Cortes.
Louis. De Cortes?—Diego, come away.
[Exit with Diego.
Ped. Clara!—where is my daughter?
Mar. Clara!—these villains
Have robb’d us of our comfort, and will, I fear,
Her of her honour.
Ped. This had not wont to be
Our Spanish fashion; but now our gallants,
Our gentry, our young dons, heated with wine,—
A fire our countrymen do seldom sit at,—
Commit these outrages.—Clara!—Maria,
Let’s homeward; I will raise Madrill to find
These traitors to all goodness.—Clara!
Mar. Clara! [Exeunt.