_Zan._ My lord, I love Your very errors; they are born from virtue. Your friendship (and what nobler passion claims The heart?) does lead you blindfold to your ruin. Consider, wherefore did Alvarez break Don Carlos' match, and wherefore urge Alonzo's? 'Twas the same cause, the love of wealth. To-morrow May see Alonzo in don Carlos' fortune; A higher bidder is a better friend, And there are princes sigh for Leonora. When your friend's gone, you'll wed; why, then the cause Which gives you Leonora now, will cease. Carlos has lost her; should you lose her too, Why, then you heap new torments on your friend, By that respect which labour'd to relieve him-- 'Tis well, he is disturb'd; it makes him pause. [_aside._ _Alon._ Think'st thou, my Zanga, should I ask don Carlos, His goodness would consent that I should wed her? _Zan._ I know, it would. _Alon._ But then the cruelty To ask it, and for me to ask it of him! _Zan._ Methinks, you are severe upon your friend. Who was it gave him liberty and life? _Alon._ That is the very reason which forbids it. Were I a stranger I could freely speak: In me it so resembles a demand, Exacting of a debt, it shocks my nature. _Zan._ My lord, you know the sad alternative. Is Leonora worth one pang or not? It hurts not me, my lord, but as I love you: Warmly as you I wish don Carlos well; But I am likewise don Alonzo's friend: There all the diff'rence lies between us two. In me, my lord, you hear another self; And, give me leave to add, a better too, Clear'd from those errors, which, though caus'd by virtue, Are such as may hereafter give you pain-- Don Lopez of Castile would not demur thus. _Alon._ Perish the name! What, sacrifice the fair To age and ugliness, because set in gold? I'll to don Carlos, if my heart will let me. I have not seen him since his sore affliction; But shunn'd it, as too terrible to bear. How shall I bear it now? I'm struck already. [_exit._ _Zan._ Half of my work is done. I must secure Don Carlos, ere Alonzo speak with him. [_he gives a message to a Servant, then returns._ Proud, hated Spain, oft drench'd in Moorish blood! Dost thou not feel a deadly foe within thee? Shake not the tow'rs where'er I pass along, Conscious of ruin, and their great destroyer? Shake to the centre, if Alonzo's dear. Look down, oh, holy prophet! see me torture This Christian dog, this infidel, who dares To smite thy votaries, and spurn thy law; And yet hopes pleasure from two radiant eyes, Which look as they were lighted up for thee! Shall he enjoy thy paradise below? Blast the bold thought, and curse him with her charms! But see, the melancholy lover comes. _Enter Don Carlos._