t all a tale.

_Alon._ A tale! There's proof equivalent to sight.

_Zan._ I should distrust my sight on this occasion.

_Alon._ And so should I; by heav'n, I think I should.
What, Leonora! the divine, by whom
We guess'd at angels! Oh! I'm all confusion.

_Zan._ You now are too much ruffled to think clearly.
Since bliss and horror, life and death, hang on it,
Go to your chamber, there maturely weigh
Each circumstance; consider, above all,
That it is jealousy's peculiar nature
To swell small things to great; nay, out of nought
To conjure much, and then to lose its reason
Amid the hideous phantoms it has form'd.

_Alon._ Had I ten thousand lives, I'd give them all
To be deceiv'd.
And yet she seem'd so pure, that I thought heav'n
Borrow'd her form for virtue's self to wear,
To gain her lovers with the sons of men.
O, Leonora! Leonora! [_exit._

_Re-enter Isabella._

_Zan._ Thus far it works auspiciously. My patient
Thrives, underneath my hand, in misery.
He's gone to think; that is, to be distracted.

_Isa._ I overheard your conference, and saw you,
To my amazement, tear the letter.

_Zan._ There,
There, Isabella, I out-did myself.
For, tearing it, I not secure it only
In its first force, but superadd a new.
For who can now the character examine
To cause a doubt, much less detect the fraud?
And after tearing it, as loth to show
The foul contents, if I should swear it now
A forgery, my lord would disbelieve me,
Nay, more, would disbelieve the more I swore.
But is the picture happily dispos'd of?

_Isa._ It is.

_Zan._ That's well--Ah! what is well? O pang to think!
O dire necessity! is this my province?
Whither, my soul! ah! whither art thou sunk?
Does this become a soldier? this become
Whom armies follow'd, and a people lov'd?
My martial glory withers at the thought.
But great my end; and since there are no other,
These means are just, they shine with borrow'd light,
Illustrious from the purpose they pursue.

And greater sure my merit, who, to gain
A point sublime, can such a task sustain;
To wade through ways obscene, my honour bend,
And shock my nature, to attain my end.
Late time shall wonder; that my joys will raise:
For wonder is involuntary praise. [_exeunt._

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.

_Enter Don Alonzo and Zanga._

_Alon._ Oh, what a pain to think! when ev'ry thought,
Perplexing thought, in intricacies runs,
And reason knits th' inextricable toil,
I