_Scene changes to +Blanca's+ antechamber. Enter +Donna Blanca+ and +Francisca+._ +Blan.+ As well as Silvia pleases me, Francisca, I'm glad at present that she is not well, She would constrain me else: she has wit enough To descant on my humour, and from thence To make perhaps discoveries, not fit For such new-comers. +Fran.+ If she has wit, she keep it to herself, At least from me: of pride and melancholy I see good store. +Blan.+ Still envious and detracting? _Enter +Don Zancho+ and +Chichon+._ +Fran.+ See who comes there, madam, to stop your mouth! [_+Donna Blanca+ casting an eye that way, and +Chichon+ clinging up close behind his master, and making a mouth._ +Chi.+ Sh' has spied us, and it thickens in the clear. I fear a storm: goes not your heart pit-a-pat? [_To his master, aside._ +Blan.+ Ah, the bold traitor!--but I must dissemble, And give his impudence a little line, The better to confound him. [_Advancing to him, and as it were embracing him with an affected cheerfulness._ Welcome as unexpected, my Don Zancho. +Don Z.+ Nay, then we are safe, Chichon. [_Aside to +Chichon+._ Incomparable maid! Heaven bless those eyes, From which I find a new life springing in me; Having so long been banish'd from their rays, How dark the court appear'd to me without them; Could it have kept me from their influence, As from their light, I had expir'd long since. +Blan.+ Y' express your love now in so courtly a style, I fear you have acted it in earnest there, And but rehearse to me your country mistress. +Don Z.+ Ah, let Chichon but tell you how he hath seen me During my absence from you. +Chi.+ I vow I have seen him even dead for love. You might have found it in his very looks, Before you brought the blood into his cheeks. +Blan.+ E'en dead (you say) for love! but say of whom? +Don Z.+ Can Blanca ask a question so injurious, As well to her own perfections as my faith? +Blan.+ I can hold no longer. [_Aside to +Francisca+._ My faithful lover, then it is not you---- [_To him scornfully._ +Chi.+ She changes tone: I like not, faith, the key, The music will be jarring. [_Aside to his master._ +Blan.+ 'Tis not then you, Don Zancho, who, having chang'd His suit at court into a love pretension, And his concurrents into a gallant rival, Fell by his hand, a bloody sacrifice At his fair mistress' feet: who was it, then?