DIANA: So then, Teodoro, you've a mind t...

DIANA: So then, Teodoro, you've a mind to marry?

TEODORO: No mind for anything unless you wish it; and you should understand that my offence is not so gross as others may have told you. You know that Envy has a scorpion's tongue, and Ovid, if he'd ever been a servant would hardly have described its dismal dwelling as if it lived in lonely vales or mountains; it lives and reigns among us servants here.

DIANA: It isn't true, then, that you love Marcela?

TEODORO: I could survive without her.

DIANA: But they tell me you've lost your wits about her?

TEODORO: Wits like mine are no great loss; and yet you must believe me, your ladyship, that even though Marcela may merit such devotion, I've not shown it.

DIANA: You mean you haven't murmured such endearments as might beguile a somewhat loftier lady?

TEODORO: Fine words cost little.

DIANA: Tell me what you told her. How does a man, Teodoro, court a woman?

TEODORO: As one who loves and pleads for love's requital, wrapping one half-truth in a thousand lies.

DIANA: But with what words?

TEODORO: You press me strangely, madam. "Those eyes of yours," I said, "those radiant globes beam forth the light by which my eyes perceive the pearls and coral of that mouth divine ....

DIANA: "Divine?"

TEODORO: Why yes, your ladyship, such language is every ardent lover's A.B.C.

DIANA: You've little taste. Don't be surprised, Teodoro, if I lose confidence in your discernment, for I, who observe Marcela rather closer, know that her defects far exceed her graces. Besides, I've often reason to reprove her because she's none too clean ... but then you love her; I wouldn't want to interfere, although you'd be surprised the things ... but that's enough of your Marcela's virtues, or her vices; I'm sure I wish your marriage well, Teodoro. But since you know so much of love, advise me--as I hope you'll be happy with Marcela--about that friend of mine; for many days now she's known no rest for love of an inferior. The very thought of love offends her honour, but if she checks herself, she's quite distracted by jealousy; and he, all unaware of so much passion, though he's shrewd, is timid.

TEODORO: What do I know of love, your ladyship? I swear I don't know how I could advise you.

DIANA: But don't you love Marcela, as you say? What of those fond endearments? If the doors could only speak, they'd say....

TEODORO: They could say nothing!

DIANA: Ah, but you're blushing; what your tongue denies, your reddening cheeks confess.

TEODORO: Marcela's stupid if she's been saying ... I took her hand, it's true; I didn't keep it though, but gave it back. What's she complaining of?

DIANA: Well, but some hands are like the pax the priest sends round at Mass; before they give it back, the faithful kiss it.

TEODORO: Marcela is a fool. I own I ventured with seemly deference to cool my lips with snow and lilies ...

DIANA: Ah, with snow and lilies? I'll make a note that such a poultice serves to cool a burning heart. Well now.—advise me,

TEODORO: The lady whom you speak of, if she longs for one so far beneath her, but she fears to indulge her passion would besmirch her honour, might by some trick contrive to lie with him without his recognizing who she was.

DIANA: There’d always be the danger he might guess. Would it be best to kill him?

TEODORO: They do say Marcus Aurelius, when his wife Faustina desired to enjoy a handsome gladiator, killed him, gave her his blood, and cooled her ardour; but Roman remedies like those were fine for pagans, not for us Christians, surely

DIANA: True, Teodoro. There’s no such thing these days as a Lucretia, or a Torquatus, a Virginius; and in their day, of course, they’d their Faustinas, and their Poppeas, and their Messalinas. Write me a memorandum on the matter. I’ll leave you to it.

(She falls)

Ah! Don’t you see I’ve fallen? Why stand there staring? Here, give me your hand.

TEODORO: I feared to offer it, out of respect.

(He wraps his hand in his cloak and offers it)

DIANA: How gracious, and how gauche! Why wrap it up?

TEODORO: Otavio, when you go to Mass, gives his wrapped in his cloak like this.”

DIANA: His is a hand I don’t desire of him, an ancient hand, a hand that should be shrouded like a corpse. To wrap yourself in silk, so one who’s fallen is made to wait, is like to waste time dressing to go to help a friend you’ve seen attacked, and come to his assistance when he’s dead. In any case, how can it be more proper, whatever petty protocol prescribes, for honourable hands to hide their faces?

TEODORO: I’m conscious of your condescension, madam.

DIANA: When you’re a faithful old retainer, maybe you’ll give your hand wrapped in your cloak, but now you are my secretary; that’s to say: keep my fall secret, if you seek to rise,

(She exits)

TEODORO: Dare I believe this can be true? I dare; Diana’s fair, but she’s a woman too, She sought my hand, and when she felt it there fear robbed her cheeks of all their rosy hue. She trembled, I could tell; yet still I fear. What shall I do? Why, seize this happy chance; although the venture’s outcome’s so unclear my fears must yield before my hopes advance. I’ll wrong Marcela cruelly if I drop her; too often women find men they thought true have played them false, and that’s not right or proper. But they respond to whims and fancies too, and when it suits them, they play fast and loose. Sauce for the gander, then, sauce for the goose.

Lope de Vega. The Dog in the Manger. Trans. Victor Dixon. Carleton Renaissance Plays in Translation. Ottawa, Dovehouse Editions, 1990. pp. 60-63.