_Don John._ If e'er you loved, 'tis you, not I forget; For a remove 'tis here too deeply set, Firm-rooted, and for ever must remain. [_She turns away._ Why thus unkind? _D. of Eboli._ Why are you jealous then? [_Turns to him._ _Don John._ Come, let it be no more! I'm hushed and still. Will you forgive? _D. of Eboli._ How can you doubt my will? I do. _Don John._ Then send me not away unblest. _D. of Eboli._ Till you return I will not think of rest. Carlos will hither suddenly repair. The next apartment's mine; I'll wait you there, Farewell! [_She seems to weep._ _Don John._ Oh, do not let me see a tear; It quenches joy, and stifles appetite. Like war's fierce god, upon my bliss I'd prey; Who, from the furious toils of arms all day, Returning home to love's fair queen at night, Comes riotous and hot with full delight. [_Exit._ _D. of Eboli._ He has reaped his joys, and now he would be free, And to effect it puts on jealousy: But I'm as much a libertine as he; As fierce my will, as furious my desires; Yet will I hold him; though enjoyment tires, Though love and appetite be at the best, He'll serve, as common meats fill up a feast, And look like plenty, though we never taste. _Enter_ RUY-GOMEZ. Old lord, I bring thee news will make thee young. _Ruy-Gom._ Speak; there was always music in thy tongue. _D. of Eboli._ Thy foes are tottering, and the day's thy own; Give them but one lift now, and they go down. Quickly to the king, and all his doubts renew; Appear disturbed, as if you something knew Too difficult and dangerous to relate, Then bring him hither labouring with the weight. I will take care that Carlos shall be here: So for his jealous eyes a sight prepare, Shall prove more fatal than Medusa's head, And he more monster seem than she e'er made. [_Exit._ _Enter_ KING, _attended_. _King._ Still how this tyrant doubt torments my breast! When shall I get the usurper dispossessed? My thoughts, like birds when frighted from their rest, Around the place where all was hushed before, Flutter, and hardly settle any more-- [_Sees_ RUY-GOMEZ. Ha, Gomez! what art thou thus musing on? _Ruy-Gom._ I'm thinking what it is to have a son; What mighty cares and what tempestuous strife Attend on an unhappy father's life; How children blessings seem, but torments are; When young, our folly; and when old, our fear. _King._ Why dost thou bring these odd reflections here? Thou enviest sure the quiet which I bear. _Ruy-Gom._ No, sir, I joy in the ease which you possess, And wish you never may have cause for less.