+Don O.+ Ye pow'rs above, why do ye lay so great A weight on human nature, and bestow Such an unequal force to bear our loads? After a long pursuit, through all those stories, Which hell-bred malice or the pow'r of fate Could ever raise t' oppress a noble love, To be at length possess'd of a rich mine, Where nature seem'd to have lodged all her treasure, And in an instant have it ravish'd from me, Is too rude a trial for my patience To sustain: I cannot bear it. +Por.+ My sense of this misfortune equals yours; But yet I must conjure you to submit To the decrees of those who rule above: Such resignation may incline their justice Th' impending mischief to divert; besides, In human things there's such vicissitude, Where hope should end we hardly can conclude. +Don O.+ Weak hope the parent is of anxious care, And more tormenting far than fix'd despair: This makes us turn to new expedients, That languish 'twixt desire and diffidence. +Por.+ Fortune will blush for shame when she shall find Her best-aim'd darts can never touch your mind. +Don O.+ Ah, Porcia! though my mind be far above The reach of fate, 'tis level unto love. Urge it no more: I'll die a thousand deaths, Ere I'll consent to part with you. [_Strikes his breast._ +Por.+ I shall be always yours; for though we're forc'd To separate, yet we are not divorc'd. +Don O.+ Whilst our souls act by organs of the sense, 'Twixt death and parting there's no difference. +Por.+ Consult your reason, then you will comply, Making a virtue of necessity. +Don O.+ Ah, lovely maid! 'twas not allowed to Jove To hold at once his reason and his love. _Enter +Diego+._ +Diego.+ The chair is come, sir, just as I expected. +Don O.+ Where is it? +Diego.+ Even where it was: they are deeply engag'd _A las Pintas_,[67] and will not leave their game, They swear, for all the dons in Seville. +Don O.+ A curse upon these rogues! I'll make 'em come, Or make their hearts ache. [_+Don Octavio+ runs out._ +Diego.+ Madam, though I was never yet unkind To my own person, I am so much troubled At the disquiet my mistake has brought you, That, could I do't conveniently, i' faith, I would even cudgel myself. +Por.+ Away, buffoon! is this a time for fooling? _Enter +Don Antonio+ and +Sancho+._ +Don A.+ Where is my noble friend Octavio? +Diego.+ Did you not meet him at the door, sir? +Don A.+ No. +Diego.+ He went out, sir, just as you came in. +Don A.+ Madam, I might have gone to bed, but not [_Addresses himself to +Porcia+._ To rest, without returning to inquire Of yours and of my noble friend's condition, And once more to offer you my service.