Ped. Here in Madrid, Sir, and that fair Maid’s your Sister. [Pointing to _Clarinda_. Alon. I scarce can credit thee, but that I know thee honest. Ped. To confirm that belief, Sir, here are the Writings of twelve thousand Crowns a Year, left you by your Foster-Father the brave _Alonzo_, whose Name he gave you too. [Gives him Papers, he reads. Alon. I am convinc’d—How now, _Marcel_, what all in Tears? why, who the Devil would love in earnest? Come, come, make me Judge between you. Mar. You’ll soon decide it then, my Heart’s _Clarinda’s_; But my forc’d Vows are given to another. Alon. Vows! dost think the Gods regard the Vows of Lovers? they are things made in necessity, and ought not to be kept, nor punish’d when broken; if they were—Heaven have mercy on me poor Sinner. Enter _Ambrosio_. Mar. My Father return’d! [Bows, and goes to him, and then leads _Alonzo_ to him. Sir, this is the gallant Man that was design’d to be your Son-in-Law. Amb. And that you were not so, Sir, was my misfortune only. Alon. I am glad to find it no slight to my Person, Or unknown Quality that depriv’d me of that Honour. 313 Mar. To convince you of that, _Alonzo_, I know my Father will bestow this other Sister on you; more fair and young, and equally as rich. [_Ambrosio_ calls _Marcel_ aside. Alon. How, his Sister! Fool that I was, I could not guess at this; and now have I been lying and swearing all this while how much I lov’d her. Well, take one time with another, a Man falls into more Danger by this amorous Humour, than he gets good turns by it. Mar. Pardon me, Sir, I knew not you had design’d her elsewhere—Dear _Alonzo_, my Father— Alon. Ay, Sir, I am much oblig’d to him. Oh Pox, would I were well with _Euphemia_. Mar. I protest I could wish— Alon. Ay, so could I, Sir, that you had made a better Judgment of my Humour: All must out, I have no other way to avoid this Compliment else. Why look ye, _Marcel_—Your Sister is—Pox, I am ill at Dissimulation, and therefore in plain Terms, I am to be married this very Evening to another. Mar. This was happy, and has sav’d me an Excuse. [Aside. But are you in earnest, How is it possible, being so lately come into _Madrid?_ Alon. Destiny, Destiny, _Marcel_, which there was no avoiding, tho I mist of _Hippolyta_. Mar. Who is it, prithee? Alon. A Woman I hope, of which indeed I would have been better assur’d; but she was wilful. She’s call’d _Euphemia._ Mar. Our next Neighbour, the Daughter of old _Carlo_. Alon. The same. Mar. Thou art happy to make so good a Progress in so short a time, but I am— Alon. Not so miserable as you believe. Come, come, you shall marry _Clarinda_. Mar. ’Tis impossible. 314 Alon. Where’s the hindrance? Mar. Her want of Fortune; that’s enough, Friend. Alon. Stand by and expect the best— [Goes to _Ambrosio_. Sir, I have an humble Suit to you.