+Blan.+ Francisca, were I otherwise persuaded, I am not of an humour that could suffer Such parleys for him, much less intercession; But since, upon reflection, I find cause To think what he has done a sally only Of youth and vanity, when I shall find him Sufficiently mortified, I may pardon him. +Fran.+ Heavens bless so sweet a temper! but, madam, Have a care, I beseech you, of one thing. +Blan.+ What's that? +Fran.+ That, whilst your pride of heart Prolongs his readmission, his despair Urge him not to some precipitate attempt That may expose your honour, safe as yet. You see what danger the last night's distemper Had like t' have brought you into: transported lovers, Like angels fallen from their bliss, grow devils. +Blan.+ What, would you have me appear so flexible? Is't not enough I tell you I may pardon him in due time? +Fran.+ Good madam, be advis'd: I do not press you For his sake, but your own. Trust my experience, To women nought's so fatal as suspense; Whose smartest actions ne'er did cast such blot On honour as this--shall I? shall I not? +Blan.+ I'd rather die, than have him think me easy. +Fran.+ Your spirit never can be liable To that suspicion. Madam, leave to me The conduct of this matter, I beseech you: If, ere you sleep, you do not see the gallant Sufficiently humbled at your feet, Ne'er trust Francisca more. +Blan.+ You are so troublesome: do what you will. [_+Blanca+ turns away, and exit as into her closet._ +Fran.+ What, gone away? I'll do what she would have, but dares not say. [_Exit._ _Enter +Don Julio+ and +Elvira+, as in +Blanca's+ chamber._ +Don J.+ Where's my sister, Silvia? [_Looking about him._ +Elv.+ In her closet, sir: As yet not ready. +Don J.+ And where's Francisca? +Elv.+ She's with her, dressing her. +Don J.+ Why then, Elvira, Let me not lose this opportunity Of telling you how sad a man I am To see you in this posture, and to assure you How gladly I would lay down life and fortune To serve you in Don Fernando's absence. +Elv.+ Your generosity I make no doubt of: But is Fernando gone? +Don J.+ I cannot say That he is gone; for he was not himself, With the thought of leaving you, and yet less Himself, whene'er he thought of staying near you; Tortur'd by two such contrary passions, As love and sharp resentment.