SCENE I--A pass of rocks, over which a storm is rolling away, and the sun setting: in the foreground, half-way down, a fortress.

(Enter first from the topmost rock Rosaura, as from horseback, in man's attire; and, after her, Fife.)

ROSAURA. There, four-footed Fury, blast Engender'd brute, without the wit Of brute, or mouth to match the bit Of man--art satisfied at last? Who, when thunder roll'd aloof, Tow'rd the spheres of fire your ears Pricking, and the granite kicking Into lightning with your hoof, Among the tempest-shatter'd crags Shattering your luckless rider Back into the tempest pass'd? There then lie to starve and die, Or find another Phaeton Mad-mettled as yourself; for I, Wearied, worried, and for-done, Alone will down the mountain try, That knits his brows against the sun.

FIFE (as to his mule). There, thou mis-begotten thing, Long-ear'd lightning, tail'd tornado, Griffin-hoof-in hurricano, (I might swear till I were almost Hoarse with roaring Asonante) Who forsooth because our betters Would begin to kick and fling You forthwith your noble mind Must prove, and kick me off behind, Tow'rd the very centre whither Gravity was most inclined. There where you have made your bed In it lie; for, wet or dry, Let what will for me betide you, Burning, blowing, freezing, hailing; Famine waste you: devil ride you: Tempest baste you black and blue: (To Rosaura.) There! I think in downright railing I can hold my own with you.

ROS. Ah, my good Fife, whose merry loyal pipe, Come weal, come woe, is never out of tune What, you in the same plight too?