_Don Ferd_. Yes; the maid who saw me out, took it from the door.

_Don Ant_. Then, my life for it, her mistress elopes after you.

_Don Ferd_. Ay, to bless my rival, perhaps. I am in a humour to
suspect everybody.--You loved her once, and thought her an angel, as I
do now.

_Don Ant_. Yes, I loved her, till I found she wouldn't love me, and
then I discovered that she hadn't a good feature in her face.

AIR.

I ne'er could any lustre see
In eyes that would not look on me;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,
But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art?
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it, grateful, press again.
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so, when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.