_Y. Mir._ Your sister's phrensy shall excuse your madness; and, to show my concern for what she suffers, I'll bear the villain from her brother.--Put up your anger with your sword; I have a heart like yours, that swells at an affront received, but melts at an injury given; and, if the lovely Oriana's grief be such a moving scene, 'twill find a part within this breast, perhaps as tender as a brother's. _Dug._ To prove that soft compassion for her grief, endeavour to remove it.--There, there, behold an object that's infective; I cannot view her, but I am as mad as she! _Enter_ ORIANA, _held by Two Maids, who put her in a Chair_. A sister, that my dying parents left, with their last words and blessing, to my care. Sister, dearest sister! [_Goes to her._ _Old Mir._ Ay, poor child, poor child, d'ye know me? _Oriana._ You! you are Amadis de Gaul, sir.--Oh! oh, my heart! Were you never in love, fair lady? And do you never dream of flowers and gardens?--I dream of walking fires, and tall gigantic sights. Take heed, it comes now--What's that? Pray stand away: I have seen that face, sure.--How light my head is! _Y. Mir._ What piercing charms has beauty, even in madness! _Oriana._ I cannot; for I must be up to go to church, and I must dress me, put on my new gown, and be so fine, to meet my love. Heigho!--Will not you tell me where my heart lies buried? _Y. Mir._ My very soul is touch'd--Your hand, my fair! _Oriana._ How soft and gentle you feel! I'll tell you your fortune, friend. _Y. Mir._ How she stares upon me! _Oriana._ You have a flattering face; but 'tis a fine one--I warrant you have five hundred mistresses--Ay, to be sure, a mistress for every guinea in his pocket--Will you pray for me? I shall die to-morrow----And will you ring my passing bell? _Y. Mir._ Do you know me, injured creature? _Oriana._ No,--but you shall be my intimate acquaintance--in the grave. [_Weeps._ _Y. Mir._ Oh, tears! I must believe you; sure there's a kind of sympathy in madness; for even I, obdurate as I am, do feel my soul so tossed with storms of passion, that I could cry for help as well as she. [_Wipes his Eyes._ _Oriana._ What, have you lost your lover? No, you mock me; I'll go home and pray. _Y. Mir._ Stay, my fair innocence, and hear me own my love so loud, that I may call your senses to their place, restore them to their charming happy functions, and reinstate myself into your favour. _Bis._ Let her alone, sir; 'tis all too late: she trembles; hold her, her fits grow stronger by her talking; don't trouble her, she don't know you, sir. _Old Mir._ Not know him! what then? she loves to see him for all that. _Enter_ DURETETE. _Dur._ Where are you all? What the devil! melancholy, and I here! Are ye sad, and such a ridiculous subject, such a very good jest among you as I am?