the Prisoners
approach with great concernment, and
among the rest,_ SEBASTIAN, ALVAREZ,
_and_ ANTONIO, _who come more chearfully._

_Dor._ Poor abject creatures, how they fear to die!
These never knew one happy hour in life,
Yet shake to lay it down. Is load so pleasant?
Or has heaven hid the happiness of death,
That men may dare to live?--Now for our heroes. [_The Three approach._
O, these come up with spirits more resolved.
Old venerable Alvarez;--well I know him,
The favourite once of this Sebastian's father;
Now minister, (too honest for his trade)
Religion bears him out; a thing taught young,
In age ill practised, yet his prop in death.
O, he has drawn a black; and smiles upon't,
As who should say,--My faith and soul are white,
Though my lot swarthy: Now, if there be hereafter,
He's blest; if not, well cheated, and dies pleased.

_Anton._ [_Holding his lot in his clenched hand._]
Here I have thee;
Be what thou wilt, I will not look too soon:
Thou hast a colour; if thou prov'st not right,
I have a minute good ere I behold thee.
Now, let me roll and grubble thee:
Blind men say, white feels smooth, and black feels rough;
Thou hast a rugged skin, I do not like thee.

_Dor._ There's the amorous airy spark, Antonio,
The wittiest woman's toy in Portugal:
Lord, what a loss of treats and serenades!
The whole she-nation will be in mourning for him.

_Anton._ I've a moist sweaty palm; the more's my sin:
If it be black, yet only dyed, not odious
Damned natural ebony, there's hope, in rubbing,
To wash this Ethiop white.--[_Looks._] Pox o'the proverb!
As black as hell;--another lucky saying!
I think the devil's in me;--good again!
I cannot speak one syllable, but tends
To death or to damnation. [_Holds up his ball._

_Dor._ He looks uneasy at his future journey, [_Aside._
And wishes his boots off again, for fear
Of a bad road, and a worse inn at night.
Go to bed, fool, and take secure repose,
For thou shalt wake no more. [SEBASTIAN _comes up to draw._

_M. Mol._ [_To Ben._] Mark him, who now approaches to the lottery:
He looks secure of death, superior greatness,
Like Jove, when he made Fate, and said, Thou art
The slave of my creation.--I admire him.

_Bend._ He looks as man was made; with face erect,
That scorns his brittle corpse, and seems ashamed
He's not all spirit; his