[_Pulls out his Flute._] If there be
variety of Moors' flesh in this holy market, 'twere madness to lay out
all my money upon the first bargain. [_He plays. A Grate opens, and_
MORAYMA, _the Mufti's Daughter, appears at it._]--Ay, there's an
apparition! This is a morsel worthy of a Mufti; this is the relishing
bit in secret; this is the mystery of his Alcoran, that must be
reserved from the knowledge of the prophane vulgar; this is his
holiday devotion.--See, she beckons too. [_She beckons to him._
_Mor._ Come a little nearer, and speak softly.
_Ant._ I come. I come, I warrant thee; the least twinkle had brought
me to thee; such another kind syllable or two would turn me to a
meteor, and draw me up to thee.
_Mor._ I dare not speak, for fear of being overheard; but if you think
my person worth your hazard, and can deserve my love, the rest this
note shall tell you. [_Throws down a Handkerchief._] No more, my heart
goes with you. [_Exit from the Grate._
_Ant._ O thou pretty little heart, art thou flown hither? I'll keep it
warm, I warrant it, and brood upon it in the new nest.--But now for my
treasure trove, that's wrapt up in the handkerchief; no peeping here,
though I long to be spelling her Arabic scrawls and pot-hooks. But I
must carry off my prize as robbers do, and not think of sharing the
booty before I am free from danger, and out of eye-shot from the other
windows.
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