V.

SCENE I.--_The interior of_ Orsino's _hermitage._

Alfonso _is discovered sleeping._

_Enter_ Orsino _and_ Ricardo.

_Orsi._ Come they in force?

_Ricar._ At least five thousand strong,
But stronger far in loyalty than numbers.
Scarce heard my tale, clamours of rage and pity
Burst from the croud, and every peasant swore,
He'd perish or preserve that sovereign's rights,
Who used them ever for the poor man's good.

_Orsi._ Honest Ricardo: When to serve thy king
I judged thee truest of the true, I erred not.
The lords to whom I sent thee, what reception
Found'st thou from them?

_Ricar._ Such as almost would prove,
Ingratitude is not the vice of courts:
But when I said, Orsino was to head them,
Their zeal, their joy-----

_Orsi._ No more.--Are they at hand?

_Ricar._ An hour will bring them here.

_Orsi._ We'll then tow'rds Burgos,
And ere the swarth Castilian sees the sun
Pour on his rip'ning vines meridian beams,
Caesario's royal dream shall close forever.
--[_Looking on_ Alfonso.]---He sleeps--Oh! come all ye who envy monarchs,
Look on yon bed of leaves, and thank heaven's kindness,
Which saved ye from the sorrows of a throne.

_Ricar._ My dear, my injured master.

_Orsi._ Go, Ricardo,
Watch for your friends; and when from yonder rock
Thou see'st their forces, warn me. [_Exit_ Ricardo.

_Orsi._ [_To_ Alfonso,] Canst thou sleep,
And sleep thus soundly on so rude a pallet?
There's many a prince, whose couch is strown with roses,
Finds their sweet leaves but serve to harbour aspies:
There's many a conqueror stretched on down, who passes
The live-long night to woo repose in vain,
And view with aching, restless, sated eyes,
The trophies which nod round his crimson bed.
But fraud, ambition, treachery, plots, and murder,
In vain would banish his repose who sleeps,
Watched by his prospering kingdom's anxious angel;
And lull'd to slumber by his people's prayers.
But see,--He wakes.--(_Lowering his vizor._)

_Alfon._ (_Waking._) Do what thou wilt, Caesario,
But harm not my poor child.--How now!----Where am I?
--What place--I see it all.--Lo!--where he stands,
Whose well-timed warning snatched me from the flames,
And led me hither.--Say, thou dread preserver,
Mysterious stranger, ease a father's anguish:
How fares it with my child? What news from Burgos?

_Orsi._ Burgos believes thee dead. Caesario fills
Thy vacant throne.

_Alfon._ I ask not of my throne.
My child! Oh! say, my child?----