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AIR. Matilda and Laurette.

Mat. The god of love a bandeau wears;
Would you know what it declares,
And why his eyes are clouded?

'Tis to shew us that his pow'r
Is ne'er so fatal, ne'er so sure,

As when in darkness shrowded.
Laur. Good Sir, repeat that pretty strain,
Pray again, again.

Mat.

A lesson kind it does impart,
To guard against a lover's art.
With all my heart.

The god of love a bandeau wears;
Wou'd you know what it declares,
And why his eyes are clouded?
'Tis to shew you that his pow'r
Is ne'er so fatal, ne'er so sure,

As when in darkness shrowded.

Laur. Look, there are two pilgrims meeting my father---see---he embraces one of thein---sure, those cannot be the visitors he expected--I must go

Mat. A moment, Laurette---I have something to say to you.

Laur. About Florestan?

Mat. No!

Laur. Oh! then I can't stay.

[Exit into the house.

Mat. They are coming this way. I can't retire till my guide comes.

Enter Sir OWEN, BLONDEL, and PILGRIM.

Sir O. My brave friend, how rejoic'd I am to see you. You are well disguised indeed; I myself should never have guess'd it was Blondel. Mat. Blondel! what do I hear! [Aside. Blond. Caution, my friend. My search would be fruitless indeed, shou'd I be discovered. And see.

[Pointing to Matilda. Sir O. It is a poor blind youth, a wandering minstrel who diverts the peasants. Mat. Shall I play, worthy gentlemen? I have a ditty made by a royal lover, on the lady whom he loved.

[Plays. Sir O. Why are you so much astonished? Blond. That was made by my gallant master -prithee go on. [She plays again. Blond. Ŏh! how it reminds of happy days! -Tell me, boy-where could you learn that tune?

Mat. I was taught it by a servant of King Richard's camp, who said he had heard the king himself sing to it.

Blond. Even so;-he made it for the lovely and unfortunate Matilda; unfortunate indeed! -for passing through Artois, I learned that she had left her father's court, and fled almost alone,

upon the rumour that the royal Richard had been treacherously seized, as he returned from Palestine.-O! if her gallant monarch yet lives, sure heaven will guide some of those who seek him to the prison that immures him.

Sir O. Perhaps the fair Matilda alone has had intelligence.

Blond. O! no---But yesterday I pass'd the Seneschal's, her father's trusty friend, who with a chosen band of troops, was searching to reclaim her; and he had learned, that stript of her companions by perfidy, or death-deprived she had sought the sadder prison of a monastery.

Mat. The Seneschal so near. [Aside.] Gracious sir, if music has pleas'd you, will you entreat your kind host to lodge this night a poor harmless minstrel, who lost his precious sight in Palestine, and I will play all night to sooth you. Blond. Poor youth.---He will, I doubt not.--[Makes Signs to Antonio, who leads Matilda off.

Sir O. I had refused him only from the caution I thought due to you. But come, you must forget the pilgrim awhile---we'll in to supper soon. In the mean time I'll sing you a song, and these my rustic neighbours shall join the chorus,

Enter PEASANTS.

SONG.

Sir O. Let the Sultan Saladin,
Play the rake in Palestine,
While he claims his subjects' duty,
He's himself a slave to beauty,
Wearing baser chains than they.
Well! well!

Every man must have his way;
But to my poor way of thinking,
There's no joy like drinking.

CHORUS.

But to my poor way of thinking,
There's no joy like drinking.

Cœur de Lion loves the wars,
Richard's joy is blows and scars;
Conquer'd pagans fly before him,
Christian warriors all adore him,
Watching, marching night and day.
Well! well!

Every man must have his way;
But to my poor way of thinking,
There's no joy like drinking.

CHORUS.

But to my poor way of thinking,
There's no joy like drinking.

You too, pilgrims, love your trade,
You recruit the bold crusade,
Making zealots cross the ocean,
In a fit of fierce devotion;
Pilgrims love to fast and pray.
Well! well!

Every man must have his way;
But to my poor way of thinking,
There's no joy like drinking.

CHORUS.

But to my poor way of thinking,
There's no joy like drinking. [Exeunt.

SCENE III. A Chamber in the Castle.

Enter RICHARD and FLOREStan.

Rich. Florestan!

Flor. Sire!

Rich. Your fortune is in your power.

Flor. Sire!-my honour is.

Rich. Honour! to a traitor!---a base! perfidi

ous--

Flor. Did I believe him so, I would not serve

D

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