_Leo._ These are the words which I must only hear From Bertran's mouth; they should displease from you: I say they should; but women are so vain, To like the love, though they despise the lover. Yet, that I may not send you from my sight In absolute despair,--I pity you. _Tor._ Am I then pitied! I have lived enough!-- Death, take me in this moment of my joy; But, when my soul is plunged in long oblivion, Spare this one thought! let me remember pity, And, so deceived, think all my life was blessed. _Leo._ What if I add a little to my alms? If that would help, I could cast in a tear To your misfortunes. _Tor._ A tear! You have o'erbid all my past sufferings, And all my future too! _Leo._ Were I no queen-- Or you of royal blood-- _Tor._ What have I lost by my forefathers' fault! Why was not I the twentieth by descent From a long restive race of droning kings? Love! what a poor omnipotence hast thou, When gold and titles buy thee? _Leo._ [_Sighs._] Oh, my torture!-- _Tor._ Might I presume,--but, oh, I dare not hope That sigh was added to your alms for me! _Leo._ I give you leave to guess, and not forbid you To make the best construction for your love: Be secret and discreet; these fairy favours Are lost, when not concealed[1].--provoke not Bertran.-- Retire: I must no more but this,--Hope, Torrismond. [_Exit._ _Tor._ She bids me hope; oh heavens, she pities me! And pity still foreruns approaching love, As lightning does the thunder! Tune your harps, Ye angels, to that sound; and thou, my heart, Make room to entertain thy flowing joy. Hence, all my griefs and every anxious care; One word, and one kind glance, can cure despair. [_Exit._ SCENE II.--_A Chamber. A Table and Wine set out._ _Enter_ LORENZO. _Lor._ This may hit; 'tis more than barely possible; for friars have free admittance into every house. This jacobin, whom I have sent to, is her confessor; and who can suspect a man of such reverence for a pimp? I'll try for once; I'll bribe him high; for commonly none love money better than they, who have made a vow of poverty. _Enter Servant._ _Serv._ There's a huge, fat, religious gentleman coming up, sir. He says he's but a friar, but he's big enough to be a pope; his gills are as rosy as a turkey cock's; his great belly walks in state before him, like an harbinger; and his gouty legs come limping after it: Never was such a ton of devotion seen. _Lor._ Bring him in, and vanish. [_Exit Servant._ _Enter Father_ DOMINICK. _Lor._ Welcome, father. _Dom._ Peace be here: I thought I had been sent for to a dying man; to have fitted him for another world. _Lor._ No, faith, father, I was never for taking such long journeys. Repose yourself, I beseech you, sir, if those spindle legs of yours will carry you to the next chair. _Dom._ I am old, I am infirm, I must confess, with fasting.