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._

_Car._ Hope, thou hast told me lies from day to day,
For more than twenty years; vile promiser!
None here are happy, but the very fool,
Or very wise: I am not fool enough
To smile in vanities, and hug a shadow;
Nor have I wisdom to elaborate
An artificial happiness from pains:
Ev'n joys are pains, because they cannot last. [_sighs._
How many lift the head, look gay and smile,
Against their consciences? And this we know,
Yet, knowing, disbelieve, and try again
What we have try'd, and struggle with conviction.
Each new experience gives the former credit;
And rev'rend grey threescore is but a voucher,
That thirty told us true.

_Zan._ My noble lord,
I mourn your fate: but are no hopes surviving?

_C