_Zan._ With a lucky hand; For soon Alonzo found it; I observ'd him From out my secret stand. He took it up; But scarce was it unfolded to his sight, When he, as if an arrow pierc'd his eye, Started, and trembling dropp'd it on the ground. Pale and aghast awhile my victim stood, Disguis'd a sigh or two, and puff'd them from him; Then rubb'd his brow and took it up again. At first he look'd as if he meant to read it; But check'd by rising fears he crush'd it thus, And thrust it, like an adder, in his bosom. _Isa._ But if he read it not, it cannot sting him, At least not mortally. _Zan._ At first I thought so; But farther thought informs me otherwise, And turns this disappointment to account. This, Isabella, is don Carlos' picture; Take it, and so dispose of it, that found, It may raise up a witness of her love; Under her pillow, in her cabinet, Or elsewhere, as shall best promote our end. _Isa._ I'll weigh it as its consequence requires, Then do my utmost to deserve your smile. [_exit._ _Zan._ Is that Alonzo prostrate on the ground?-- Now he starts up like flame from sleeping embers, And wild distraction glares from either eye. If thus a slight surmise can work his soul, How will the fulness of the tempest tear him? _Enter Don Alonzo._ _Alon._ And yet it cannot be--I am deceiv'd-- I injure her: she wears the face of heaven. _Zan._ He doubts. [_aside._ _Alon._ I dare not look on this again. If the first glance, which gave suspicion only, Had such effect, so smote my heart and brain, The certainty would dash me all in pieces. It cannot--Ha! it must, it must be true. [_starts._ _Zan._ Hold there, and we succeed. He has descry'd me. And (for he thinks I love him) will unfold His aching heart, and rest it on my counsel. I'll seem to go, to make my stay more sure. [_aside._ _Alon._ Hold, Zanga, turn. _Zan._ My lord. _Alon._ Shut close the doors, That not a spirit find an entrance here. _Zan._ My lord's obey'd. _Alon._ I see that thou art frighted. If thou dost love me, I shall fill thy heart With scorpions' stings. _Zan._ If I do love, my lord? _Alon._ Come near me, let me rest upon thy bosom; (What pillow like the bosom of a friend?) For I am sick at heart. _Zan._ Speak, sir, O, speak, And take me from the rack. _Alon._ I am most happy: mine is victory, Mine the king's favour, mine the nation's shout, And great men make their fortunes of my smiles. O curse of curses! in the lap of blessing To be most curst!--My Leonora's false! _Zan._ Save me, my lord! _Alon._ My Leonora's false! [_gives him the letter._ _Zan._ Then heaven has lost its image here on earth. [_while Zanga reads the letter, he trembles, and shows the utmost concern._ _Alon._ Good-natur'd man! he makes my pains his own. I durst not read it; but I read it now In thy concern. _Zan._ Did you not read it then? _Alon._ Mine eye just touch'd it, and could bear no more. _Zan._ Thus perish all that gives Alonzo pain! [_tears the letter._