DON JEROME--_from a window_.

What vagabonds are these I hear,
Fiddling, fluting, rhyming, ranting,
Piping, scraping, whining, canting?
Fly, scurvy minstrels, fly!

TRIO.

_Don. Louisa_.
Nay, prithee, father, why so rough?

_Don Ant_.
An humble lover I.

_Don Jer_.
How durst you, daughter, lend an ear
To such deceitful stuff?
Quick, from the window fly!

_Don. Louisa_
Adieu, Antonio!

_Don Ant_
Must you go?

_Don. Louisa_. & _Don Ant_.
We soon, perhaps, may meet again.
For though hard fortune is our foe,
The God of love will fight for us.