At dawn of day our General cleft his pate,
Spite of his woollen night-cap: a flight wound;
Perhaps he may recover.

Alph. Thou reviv'it me.

Ped. By my computation now, the victory was gained before the proceffion was made for it; and yet it will go hard but the priests will make a miracle of it.

Lor. Yes, faith we came, like bold intruding guests, And took them unprepar'd to give us welcome.

Their fcouts we kill'd, then found their body fleeping;
And as they lay confus'd, we ftumbled o'er them,
And took what joint came next, arms, heads, or legs,
Somewhat undecently. But when men want light,
They make but bungling work.

Bert. I'll to the Queen,

And bear the news.

Ped. That's young Lorenzo's duty.

Bert. I'll fpare his trouble.

This Torrifmond begins to grow too fast;

He must be mine, or ruin'd.

Lor. Pedro, a word. [Whisper.]

[Afide.

[Exit Bertran.

Alph. How fwift he fhot away! I find it ftung him,

In fpite of his diffembling.'

To Lor.] How many of the enemy are flain?

Lor. Troth, Sir, we were in haite, and could not stay To score the men we kill'd. But there they lie; Beft fend our women out to take the tale;

There's circumcifion in abundance for them.

[Turns to Pedro again.

Alph. How far did you pursue them?
Lor. Some few miles.

To Ped.] Good store of harlots, fay you, and dog-cheap?
Pedro, they must be had, and speedily.

I've kept a tedious fast.

[Whisper again.

Alph. When will he make his entry? He deferves Such triumphs as were giv'n by ancient Rome.

Ha, boy, what fay'ft thou?

Lor. As you fay, Sir, that Rome was very ancient[To Ped.] I leave the choice to you; fair, black, tall, low; Let her but have a nofe. And you may tell her

I'm rich in jewels, rings, and bobbing pearls

Pluck'd from Moors' ears.

Alph. Lorenzo.

Lor. Somewhat bufy

About affairs relating to the public

A feasonable girl, juft in the nick now.

[To Ped. [Trumpets within. Stand and mark coldly;

Ped. I hear the General's trumpet.
How he will be receiv'd: I fear, but
There hung a cloud, methought, on Bertran's brow.

Lor. Then look to see a storm on Torrifmond's.
Looks fright not men: the General has feen Moors
With as bad faces, no difpraife to Bertran's.

Ped. 'Twas rumour'd in the camp he loves the Queen. Lor. He drinks her health devoutly.

Alph. That may breed bad blood 'twixt him and Bertran. Ped. Yes, in private.

But Bertran has been taught the arts of courts,

To gild a face with fmiles, and leer a man to ruin.
Oh, here they come.

Enter Torritmond and Officers one fide, Bertran, attended, on the other; they embrace, Bertran bowing low. Just as I prophefy'd.

try

Lor. Death and hell, he laughs at him! in's face too. Ped. Oh, you mistake him! 'twas an humble grin, The fawning joy of courtiers and of dogs.'

Lor. [Afide.] Here are nothing but lies to be expected; I'll e'en go lofe myself in fome blind alley, and if any courteous damfel will think me worth the [Exit Lor, Bert. Your country refcu'd, and your Queen reliev'd! A glorious conqueft, noble Torrifinond!

finding.

Alph. Now he begins to open.

The people rend the fkies with loud applause,
And Heav'n can hear no other name but yours.
The thronging crouds prefs on you as you pafs,
And with their eager joy make triumph flow.
Tor. My Lord, I have no tafte

Of popular applaufe; the noify praife
Of giddy crouds, as changeable as winds,
Still vehement, and ftill without a caufe ;
Servants to chance, and blowing in the tide.
Of fwol'n fuccefs; but veering with its ebb,
It leaves the channel dry.

Bert

Bert. So young a stoic!

Tor. You wrong me, if you think I'll fell one drop

Within these veins for pageants: but let honour
Call for my blood, and fluice it into streams;
Turn fortune loofe again to my purfuit,
And let me hunt her through embattled foes,
In dufty plains, amidst the cannons roar,
There will I be the first.

Bert. I'll try him farther

Suppofe th' affembled states of Arragon
Decree a flatue to you, thus infcrib'd,

To Torrifmond, who freed his native land.

[Afide

Alph. [To Ped.] Mark how he founds and fathoms The fhallows of his foul!

Bert. The just applaufe

Of godlike fenates, is the ftamp of virtue,

[him, to find

Which makes it pafs unqueftion'd through the world. Thefe honours you deserve; nor fhall my fuffrage

• Be last to fix them on you. If refus'd,

You brand us all with black ingratitude;

For times to come fhall fay, Our Spain, like Rome,
Neglects her champions after noble acts,

And lets their laurels wither on their heads.'
Tor. A ftatue for a battle blindly fought,

Where darkness and furprife made conqueft cheap!
Where Virtue borrow'd but the arms of Chance,
And ftruck a random blow! 'Twas Fortune's work,
And Fortune take the praise.

Bert. Yet happiness

Is the first fame. Virtue, without fuccefs,

Is a fair picture fhewn by an ill light..

But lucky men are favourites of Heaven :

And whom fhould kings efteem above Heaven's darlings? The praises of a young and beauteous queen

Shall crown your glorious acts.

Ped. [To Alph.] There fprung the mine.

Tor. The Queen! that were a happiness too great!

Nam'd you the Queen, my Lord?

Bert. Yes. You have feen her, and you must confefs,

A praife, a fimile, a look from her is worth

The fhouts of thoufand amphitheatres.

She, fhe fhall praise you; for I can oblige her:

B 3

To-morrow

To-morrow will deliver all her charms

Into my arms, and make her mine for ever.
Why ftand you mute?

Tor. Alas, I cannot speak!

[employ'd?

Bert. Not fpeak, my Lord! How were your thoughts
Tor. Nor can I think; for I am loft in thought.
Bert. Thought of the Queen, perhaps?

Tor. Why, if it were,

Heav'n may be thought on, though too high to climb. Bert. Oh, now I find where your ambition drives! You ought not to think of her.

Tor. So I fay too,

I ought not madmen ought not to be mad;
But who can help his frenzy ?

Bert. Fond

young man!

The wings of your ambition must be clipp'd.
Your fhame-fac'd virtue fhunn'd the people's praife,

And fenate's honours: but 'tis well we know

What price you hold yourself at. You have fought
With fome fuccefs, and that has feal'd your pardon.
Tor. Pardon from thee! Oh, give me patience, Heaven!
Thrice vanquish'd Bertran, if thou dar'ft, look out
Upon yon flaughter'd hoft, that field of blood;
There feal my pardon, where thy fame was lost.
Ped. He's ruin'd, past redemption!

Alph. [To Tor.] Learn refpect
To the first prince o' the blood.
Bert. Oh, let him rave!

I'll not contend with madmen.
Tor. I have done.

I know 'twere madness to declare this truth;
And yet 'twere baseness to deny my love.
'Tis true, my hopes are vanishing as clouds,
Lighter than children's bubbles blown by winds.
My merit's but the rash result of chance;
My birth unequal; all the ftars against me;
Pow'r, promife, choice, the living and the dead;
Mankind my foes, and only love my friend;
But fuch a love, kept at fuch awful distance,
As, what it loudly dares to tell, a rival

Shall fear to whifper there. Queens may be lov'd,
And fo may gods; elfe why are altars rais'd ?

Why fhines the fun, but that he may be view'd?
But, Oh, when he's too bright, if then we gaze,

'Tis but to weep, and clofe our eyes in darkness! [Exit. Bert. 'Tis well; the goddefs fhall be told, fhe thall,

• Of her new worshipper.

Ped. So, here's fine work!

He fupply'd his only foe with arms

For his deftruction. Old Penelope's tale
Inverted: h' has unravell'd all by day,

[Exit.'

• That, he has done by night.' What, planet-ftruck!
Aph. I wish I were, to be past sense of this!
Ped. Would I had but a lease of life fo long,
As till my flesh and blood rebell'd this way,
Against our fovereign lady! Mad for a queen,
With a globe in one hand, and a fceptre in t'other!
A very pretty moppet!

Alph. Then to declare his madness to his rival,
His father abfent on an embassy,

Himself a stranger almoft, wholly friendless!

A torrent, rolling down a precipice,

Is easier to be stopp'd, than is his ruin.

Ped. 'Tis fruitlefs to complain: hafte to the court; Improve your interest there, for pardon from the queen. Alph. Weak remedies;

But all must be attempted.

Enter Lorenzo.

[Exit.

Lor. Well, I am the moft unlucky rogue! I have been ranging over half the town, but have fprung no game. Our women are worfe infidels than the Moors: I told them I was one of their knights-errant, that delivered them from ravishment; and I think in my conscience that's their quarrel to me.

Ped. Is this a time for fooling? Your coufin is run hononourably mad in love with her Majefty: he is split upon a rock; and you, who are in chace of harlots, are finking in the main ocean. I think the devil's in the family.

[Exit.

Lor. My cousin ruined, fays he !-Hum!-Not that I wish my cousin's ruin; that were unchriftian: but if the General's ruined, I am heir; there's comfort for a Christian. Money I have, I thank the honeft Moors for't;

but