+Elv.+ The task enjoin'd me is a sweet one, truly, But I smell somewhat more in the imposal. So far I am happy yet in my misfortune, That I am lighted into a lady's service Of an obliging humour; but (most of all) One that, as kind as she is, I see 's as glad To leave me alone, as I to be it. Somewhat There is mysterious in her looks and conduct: Such motions just, such inequalities, Such flatteries to those I trusted least, Such pretty employments found to busy those I would be rid of, and such arts are these To single out her confidant (unnoted), I well remember would Elvira use, Whilst the unquiet joys of love possess'd her, How innocent soever. And, besides, Francisca's sitting up so late last night, And going up and down so warily, Whilst others slept, is evidence enough What god reigns here, as well as at the court. But I forget myself. Let descants cease, Who serves, though she observes, must hold her peace. [_Exit +Elvira+._ _Scene changes to the prospect of Valencia. Enter +Don Zancho+, with his cloak over his face, and +Chichon+._ +Don Z.+ Advance, Chichon, I'll follow at a distance. 'Tis the right time--just light enough, you see, For warn'd expecters to know one another. I hope she will not fail you. +Chi.+ She fail us! No sentinel _perdu_ is half so alert As she in these occasions. _Enter +Francisca+ veiled, peeping as out of the portal of +Don Julio's+ house._ +Fran.+ There comes the varlet; and I'm much deceived, Or that's his master lagging at a distance-- I'll give them a go-by, cover'd with my veil. [_She passes by them heedlessly._ +Chi.+ By that light, as little as 'tis, 'tis she: I'll to her. +Don Z.+ And I'll stand close the while-- When you have broken the ice, I'll take my time. [+Chichon+, _going to +Francisca+, lays hold of her veil, and she turns about._ +Chi.+ What signifies a veil to hide my doxy, When every motion of a leg or wing Darts round perfuming and informing airs? Thou art the very cauliflower of women. +Fran.+ And thou the very cabbage-stalk of men, That never stank to me, as does a blab. +Chi.+ Curse on thee, hold thy tongue! Dost thou not see, Who stands against that wall? +Fran.+ Away, sauce-box! [_She, thrusting him off, goes on. +Don Zancho+ sets himself just in her way, and makes as if he would lie down in it._ +Don Z.+ Pass, trample on me, do, trample--but hear me! +Fran.+ These shoes have been my lady's, and she'd ne'er Forgive it, should they do you so much honour. [_Showing her foot._ 'Tis thou hast caus'd all this. [_Aside, turning to +Chichon+._