We shall see him now as great a critic as he was a poet; and the reason why he excelled so much in poetry will be evident, for it will appear to have proceeded from the exactness of his judgment. "In the difference of tragedy, comedy, and farce itself, there can be no determination but by the taste." I will not quarrel with the obscurity of his phrase, though I justly might; but beg his pardon if I do not rightly understand him. If he means that there is no essential difference betwixt comedy, tragedy, and farce, but what is only made by the people's taste, which distinguishes one of them from the other, that is so manifest an error, that I need not lose time to contradict it. Were there neither judge, taste, nor opinion in the world, yet they would differ in their natures; for the action, character, and language of tragedy, would still be great and high; that of comedy, lower and more familiar. Admiration would be the delight of one, and satire of the other.

I have but briefly touched upon these things, because, whatever his words are, I can scarce imagine, that "he, who is always concerned for the true honour of reason, and would have no spurious issue fathered upon her," should mean any thing so absurd as to affirm, "that there is no difference betwixt comedy and tragedy but what is made by the taste only;" unless he would have us understand the comedies of my lord L. where the first act should be pottages, the second fricassees, &c. and the fifth a chere entiere of women.

I rather guess he means, that betwixt one comedy or tragedy and another, there is no other difference, but what is made by the liking or disliking of the audience. This is indeed a less error than the former, but yet it is a great one. The liking or disliking of the people gives the play the denomination of good or bad, but does not really make or constitute it such. To please the people ought to be the poet's aim, because plays are made for their delight; but it does not follow that they are always pleased with good plays, or that the plays which please them are always good. The humour of the people is now for comedy; therefore, in hope to please them, I write comedies rather than serious plays: and so far their taste prescribes to me. But it does not follow from that reason, that comedy is to be preferred before tragedy in its own nature; for that, which is so in its own nature, cannot be otherwise, as a man cannot but be a rational creature: But the opinion of the people may alter, and in another age, or perhaps in this, serious plays may be set up above comedies.

This I think a sufficient answer; if it be not, he has provided me of an excuse: it seems, in his wisdom, he foresaw my weakness, and has found out this expedient for me, "That it is not necessary for poets to study strict reason, since they are so used to a greater latitude than is allowed by that severe inquisition, that they must infringe their own jurisdiction, to profess themselves obliged to argue well."

I am obliged to him for discovering to me this back door; but I am not yet resolved on my retreat; for I am of opinion, that they cannot be good poets, who are not accustomed to argue well. False reasonings and colours of speech are the certain marks of one who does not understand the stage: for moral truth is the mistress of the poet as much as of the philosopher; poesy must resemble natural truth, but it must be ethical. Indeed, the poet dresses truth, and adorns nature, but does not alter them:

Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris.

Therefore, that is not the best poesy, which resembles notions of things, that are not, to things that are: though the fancy may be great, and the words flowing, yet the soul is but half satisfied when there is not truth in the foundation. This is that which makes Virgil be preferred before the rest of poets. In variety of fancy, and sweetness of expression, you see Ovid far above him; for Virgil rejected many of those things which Ovid wrote. "A great wit's great work is to refuse," as my worthy friend Sir John Berkenhead has ingeniously expressed it: you rarely meet with any thing in Virgil but truth, which therefore leaves the strongest impression of pleasure in the soul. This I thought myself obliged to say in behalf of poesy; and to declare, though it be against myself, that when poets do not argue well, the defect is in the workmen, not in the art.

And now I come to the boldest part of his discourse, wherein he attacks not me, but all the ancients and moderns; and undermines, as he thinks, the very foundations on which Dramatic Poesy is built. I could wish he would have declined that envy which must of necessity follow such an undertaking, and contented himself with triumphing over me in my opinions of verse, which I will never hereafter dispute with him; but he must pardon me if I have that veneration for Aristotle, Horace, Ben Jonson, and Corneille, that I dare not serve him in such a cause, and against such heroes, but rather fight under their protection, as Homer reports of little Teucer, who shot the Trojans from under the large buckler of Ajax Telamon.

[Greek: Stae d ax up Aiantos sachei Telamoniadao] He stood beneath his brother's ample shield; And covered there, shot death through all the field.

The words of my noble adversary are these:

"But if we examine the general rules laid down for plays by strict reason, we shall find the errors equally gross; for the great foundation which is laid to build upon, is nothing as it is generally stated, as will appear upon the examination of the particulars."

These particulars in due time shall be examined. In the mean while, let us consider what this great foundation is, which he says is nothing, as it is generally stated. I never heard of any other foundation of Dramatic Poesy than the imitation of nature; neither was there ever pretended any other by the ancients or moderns, or me, who endeavour to follow them in that rule. This I have plainly said in my definition of a play; that it is a just and lively image of human nature, &c. Thus the foundation, as it is generally stated, will stand sure, if this definition of a play be true; if it be not, he ought to have made his exception against it, by proving that a play is not an imitation of nature, but somewhat else, which he is pleased to think it.

But 'tis very plain, that he has mistaken the foundation for that which is built upon it, though not immediately: for the direct and immediate consequence is this; if nature be to be imitated, then there is a rule for imitating nature rightly, otherwise there may be an end, and no means conducing to it. Hitherto I have proceeded by demonstration; but as our divines, when they have proved a Deity, because there is order, and have inferred that this Deity ought to be worshipped, differ afterwards in the manner of the worship; so, having laid down, that nature is to be imitated, and that proposition proving the next, that then there are means which conduce to the imitating of nature, I dare proceed no farther positively; but have only laid down some opinions of the ancients and moderns, and of my own, as means which they used, and which I thought probable for the attaining of that end. Those means are the same which my antagonist calls the foundations, how properly the world may judge; and to prove that this is his meaning, he clears it immediately to you, by enumerating those rules or propositions against which he makes his particular exceptions; as, namely, those of time and place, in these words: "First, we are told the plot should not be so ridiculously contrived, as to crowd two several countries into one stage; secondly, to cramp the accidents of many years or days into the representation of two hours and an half; and, lastly, a conclusion drawn, that the only remaining dispute is, concerning time, whether it should be contained in twelve or twenty-four hours; and the place to be limited to that spot of ground where the play is supposed to begin: and this is called nearest nature; for that is concluded most natural, which is most probable, and nearest to that which it presents."

Thus he has only made a small mistake, of the means conducing to the end for the end itself, and of the superstructure for the foundation: But he proceeds:

"To shew therefore upon what ill grounds they dictate laws for Dramatic Poesy," &c. He is here pleased to charge me with being magisterial, as he has done in many other places of his preface; therefore, in vindication of myself, I must crave leave to say, that my whole discourse was sceptical, according to that way of reasoning which was used by Socrates, Plato, and all the academics of old, which Tully and the best of the ancients followed, and which is imitated by the modest inquisitions of the Royal Society. That it is so, not only the name will shew, which is, An Essay, but the frame and composition of the work. You see it is a dialogue sustained by persons of several opinions, all of them left doubtful, to be determined by the readers in general; and more particularly deferred to the accurate judgment of my Lord Buckhurst, to whom I made a dedication of my book. These are my words in my epistle, speaking of the persons whom I introduced in my dialogue: "'Tis true they differed in their opinions, as 'tis probable they would: neither do I take upon me to reconcile, but to relate them, leaving your lordship to decide it in favour of that part which you shall judge most reasonable." And after that, in my advertisement to the reader, I said this: "The drift of the ensuing discourse is chiefly to vindicate the honour of our English writers from the censure of those who unjustly prefer the French before them. This I intimate, lest any should think me so exceeding vain, as to teach others an art, which they understand much better than myself." But this is more than necessary to clear my modesty in that point: and I am very confident, that there is scarce any man who has lost so much time, as to read that trifle, but will be my compurgator, as to that arrogance whereof I am accused. The truth is, if I had been naturally guilty of so much vanity as to dictate my opinions; yet I do not find that the character of a positive or self-conceited person is of such advantage to any in this age, that I should labour to be publicly admitted of that order.

But I am not now to defend my own cause, when that of all the ancients and moderns is in question. For this gentleman, who accuses me of arrogance, has taken a course not to be taxed with the other extreme of modesty. Those propositions, which are laid down in my discourse as helps to the better imitation of nature, are not mine (as I have said), nor were ever pretended so to be, but derived from the authority of Aristotle and Horace, and from the rules and examples of Ben Jonson and Corneille. These are the men with whom properly he contends, and against "whom he will endeavour to make it evident, that there is no such thing as what they all pretend."

His argument against the unities of place and time is this: "That 'tis as impossible for one stage to present two rooms or houses truly, as two countries or kingdoms; and as impossible that five hours or twenty-four hours should be two hours, as that a thousand hours or years should be less than what they are, or the greatest part of time to be comprehended in the less: for all of them being impossible, they are none of them nearest the truth, or nature of what they present; for impossibilities are all equal, and admit of no degree."

This argument is so scattered into parts, that it can scarce be united into a syllogism; yet, in obedience to him, I will abbreviate, and comprehend as much of it as I can in few words, that my answer to it may be more perspicuous. I conceive his meaning to be what follows, as to the unity of place: (if I mistake, I beg his pardon, professing it is not out of any design to play the Argumentative Poet.) If one stage cannot properly present two rooms or houses, much less two countries or kingdoms, then there can be no unity of place. But one stage cannot properly perform this: therefore there can be no unity of place.

I plainly deny his minor proposition; the force of which, if I mistake not, depends on this, that the stage being one place cannot be two. This indeed is as great a secret, as that we are all mortal; but to requite it with another, I must crave leave to tell him, that though the stage cannot be two places, yet it may properly represent them successively, or at several times. His argument is indeed no more than a mere fallacy, which will evidently appear when we distinguish place, as it relates to plays, into real and imaginary. The real place is that theatre, or piece of ground, on which the play is acted. The imaginary, that house, town, or country where the action of the drama is supposed to be, or, more plainly, where the scene of the play is laid. Let us now apply this to that Herculean argument, "which if strictly and duly weighed, is to make it evident, that there is no such thing as what they all pretend." 'Tis impossible, he says, for one stage to present two rooms or houses: I answer, 'tis neither impossible, nor improper, for one real place to represent two or more imaginary places, so it be done successively; which, in other words, is no more than this, that the imagination of the audience, aided by the words of the poet, and painted scenes, may suppose the stage to be sometimes one place, sometimes another; now a garden, or wood, and immediately a camp: which I appeal to every man's imagination, if it be not true. Neither the ancients nor moderns, as much fools as he is pleased to think them, ever asserted that they could make one place two; but they might hope, by the good leave of this author, that the change of a scene might lead the imagination to suppose the place altered: so that he cannot fasten those absurdities upon this scene of a play, or imaginary place of action, that it is one place, and yet two. And this being so clearly proved, that 'tis past any shew of a reasonable denial, it will not be hard to destroy that other part of his argument, which depends upon it, namely, that 'tis as impossible for a stage to represent two rooms or houses, as two countries or kingdoms: for his reason is already overthrown, which was, because both were alike impossible. This is manifestly otherwise; for 'tis proved that a stage may properly represent two rooms or houses; for the imagination being judge of what is represented, will in reason be less choked with the appearance of two rooms in the same house, or two houses in the same city, than with two distant cities in the same country, or two remote countries in the same universe. Imagination in a man, or reasonable creature, is supposed to participate of reason, and when that governs, as it does in the belief of fiction, reason is not destroyed, but misled, or blinded; that can prescribe to the reason, during the time of the representation, somewhat like a weak belief of what it sees and hears; and reason suffers itself to be so hood-winked, that it may better enjoy the pleasures of the fiction: But it is never so wholly made a captive, as to be drawn headlong into a persuasion of those things which are most remote from probability: It is in that case a free-born subject, not a slave; it will contribute willingly its assent, as far as it sees convenient, but will not be forced. Now, there is a greater vicinity in nature betwixt two rooms, than betwixt two houses; betwixt two houses, than betwixt two cities; and so of the rest: Reason, therefore, can sooner be led, by imagination, to step from one room into another, than to walk to two distant houses, and yet rather to go thither, than to fly like a witch through the air, and be hurried from one region to another. Fancy and Reason go hand in hand; the first cannot leave the last behind: And though Fancy, when it sees the wide gulph, would venture over, as the nimbler, yet it is with-held by Reason, which will refuse to take the leap, when the distance over it appears too large. If Ben Jonson himself will remove the scene from Rome into Tuscany in the same act, and from thence return to Rome, in the scene which immediately follows, reason will consider there is no proportionable allowance of time to perform the journey, and, therefore, will choose to stay at home. So, then, the less change of place there is, the less time is taken up in transporting the persons of the drama, with analogy to reason; and in that analogy, or resemblance of fiction to truth, consists the excellency of the play.

For what else concerns the unity of place, I have already given my opinion of it in my Essay, that there is a latitude to be allowed to it, as several places in the same town or city, or places adjacent to each other in the same country; which may all be comprehended under the larger denomination of one place; yet with this restriction, that the nearer and fewer those imaginary places are, the greater resemblance they will have to truth; and reason, which cannot make them one, will be more easily led to suppose them so.

What has been said of the unity of place, may easily be applied to that of time: I grant it to be impossible, that the greater part of time should be comprehended in the less, that twenty-four hours should be crowded into three: But there is no necessity of that supposition; for as place, so time relating to a play, is either imaginary or real: The real is comprehended in those three hours, more or less, in the space of which the play is represented; the imaginary is that which is supposed to be taken up in the representation, as twenty-four hours, more or less. Now, no man ever could suppose, that twenty-four real hours could be included in the space of three; but where is the absurdity of affirming, that the feigned business of twenty-four imagined hours, may not more naturally be represented in the compass of three real hours, than the like feigned business of twenty-four years, in the same proportion of real time? For the proportions are always real, and much nearer, by his permission, of twenty-four to three, than of four thousand to it.

I am almost fearful of illustrating any thing by similitude, lest he should confute it for an argument; yet I think the comparison of a glass will discover very aptly the fallacy of his argument, both concerning time and place. The strength of his reason depends on this, that the less cannot comprehend the greater. I have already answered, that we need not suppose it does; I say not that the less can comprehend the greater, but only, that it may represent it. As in a glass, or mirror, of half-a-yard diameter, a whole room, and many persons in it, may be seen at once; not that it can comprehend that room, or those persons, but that it represents them to the sight.

But the author of the "Duke of Lerma" is to be excused for his declaring against the unity of time; for, if I be not much mistaken, he is an interested person;—the time of that play taking up so many years, as the favour of the Duke of Lerma continued; nay, the second and third act including all the time of his prosperity, which was a great part of the reign of Philip the Third: For in the beginning of the second act he was not yet a favourite, and, before the end of the third, was in disgrace. I say not this with the least design of limiting the stage too servilely to twenty-four hours, however he be pleased to tax me with dogmatising on that point, In my dialogue, as I before hinted, several persons maintained their several opinions: One of them, indeed, who supported the cause of the French poesy, said how strict they were in that particular; but he who answered, in behalf of our nation, was willing to give more latitude to the rule, and cites the words of Corneille himself, complaining against the severity of it, and observing, what beauties it banished from the stage, p. 44. of my Essay. In few words, my own opinion is this, (and I willingly submit it to my adversary, when he will please impartially to consider it) that the imaginary time of every play ought to be contrived into as narrow a compass, as the nature of the plot, the quality of the persons, and variety of accidents will allow. In comedy, I would not exceed twenty-four or thirty hours; for the plot, accidents, and persons, of comedy are small, and may be naturally turned in a little compass: But in tragedy, the design is weighty, and the persons great; therefore, there will naturally be required a greater space of time in which to move them. And this, though Ben Jonson has not told us, yet it is manifestly his opinion: For you see that to his comedies he allows generally but twenty-four hours; to his two tragedies, "Sejanus," and "Catiline," a much larger time, though he draws both of them into as narrow a compass as he can: For he shews you only the latter end of Sejanus's favour, and the conspiracy of Catiline already ripe, and just breaking out into action.

But as it is an error, on the one side, to make too great a disproportion betwixt the imaginary time of the play, and the real time of its representation; so, on the other side, it is an oversight to compress the accidents of a play into a narrower compass than that in which they could naturally be produced. Of this last error the French are seldom guilty, because the thinness of their plots prevents them from it; but few Englishmen, except Ben Jonson, have ever made a plot, with variety of design in it, included in twenty-four hours, which was altogether natural. For this reason, I prefer the "Silent Woman" before all other plays, I think justly, as I do its author, in judgment, above all other poets. Yet, of the two, I think that error the most pardonable, which in too strait a compass crowds together many accidents, since it produces more variety, and, consequently, more pleasure to the audience; and, because the nearness of proportion betwixt the imaginary and real time, does speciously cover the compression of the accidents.

Thus I have endeavoured to answer the meaning of his argument; for, as he drew it, I humbly conceive that it was none,—as will appear by his proposition, and the proof of it. His proposition was this:

"If strictly and duly weighed, it is as impossible for one stage to present two rooms, or houses, as two countries, or kingdoms," &c. And his proof this: "For all being impossible, they are none of them nearest the truth or nature of what they present."

Here you see, instead of proof or reason, there is only petitio principii. For, in plain words, his sense is this: Two things are as impossible as one another, because they are both equally impossible: But he takes those two things to be granted as impossible, which he ought to have proved such, before he had proceeded to prove them equally impossible: He should have made out first, that it was impossible for one stage to represent two houses, and then have gone forward to prove, that it was as equally impossible for a stage to present two houses, as two countries.

After all this, the very absurdity, to which he would reduce me, is none at all: For he only drives at this, that, if his argument be true, I must then acknowledge that there are degrees in impossibilities, which I easily grant him without dispute; and, if I mistake not, Aristotle and the School are of my opinion. For there are some things which are absolutely impossible, and others which are only so ex parte; as it is absolutely impossible for a thing to be, and not to be at the same time: But for a stone to move naturally upward, is only impossible ex parte materiae; but it is not impossible for the first mover to alter the nature of it.

His last assault, like that of a Frenchman, is most feeble; for whereas I have observed, that none have been violent against verse, but such only as have not attempted it, or have succeeded ill in their attempt, he will needs, according to his usual custom, improve my observation to an argument, that he might have the glory to confute it, But I lay my observation at his feet, as I do my pen, which I have often employed willingly in his deserved commendations, and now most unwillingly against his judgment. For his person and parts, I honour them as much as any man living, and have had so many particular obligations to him, that I should be very ungrateful, if I did not acknowledge them to the world. But I gave not the first occasion of this difference in opinions. In my epistle dedicatory, before my "Rival Ladies," I had said somewhat in behalf of verse, which he was pleased to answer in his preface to his plays. That occasioned my reply in my essay; and that reply begot this rejoinder of his, in his preface to the "Duke of Lenna." But as I was the last who took up arms, I will be the first to lay them down. For what I have here written, I submit it wholly to him; and if I do not hereafter answer what may be objected against this paper, I hope the world will not impute it to any other reason, than only the due respect which I have for so noble an opponent.



THE INDIAN EMPEROR.

The Indian Emperor is the first of Dryden's plays which exhibited, in a marked degree, the peculiarity of his stile, and drew upon him the attention of the world. Without equalling the extravagancies of the Conquest of Granada, and the Royal Martyr, works produced when our author was emboldened, by public applause, to give full scope to his daring genius, the following may be considered as a model of the heroic drama, A few words, therefore, will not be here misplaced, on the nature of the kind of tragedies, in which, during the earlier part of his literary career, our author delighted and excelled.

The heroic, or rhyming, plays, were borrowed from the French, to whose genius they are better suited than to the British. An analogy may be observed between all the different departments of the belles lettres; and none seem more closely allied, than the pursuits of the dramatic writer, and those of the composer of romances or novels. Both deal in fictitious adventure; both write for amusement; and address themselves nearly to the same class of admirers. Nay, although the pride of the dramatist may be offended by the assertion, it would seem, that the nature of his walk is often prescribed by the successful impression of a novel upon the public mind. If we laugh over low adventures in a novel, we soon see low comedy upon the stage: If we are horror-struck with a tale of robbers and murder in our closet, the dagger and the green carpet will not long remain unemployed in the theatre; and if ghosts haunt our novels, they soon stalk amongst our scenes. Under this persuasion, we have little doubt that the heroic tragedies were the legitimate offspring of the French romances of Calprenede and Scuderi. Such as may deign to open these venerable and neglected tomes, will be soon convinced of their extreme resemblance to the heroic drama. A remarkable feature in both, is the ideal world which they form for themselves. Every sentiment is lofty, splendid, and striking; and no apology is admitted for any departure from the dignity of character, however natural or impressive. The beauty of the heroine, and the valour of the hero, must be alike resistless; and the moving spring, through the whole action, is the overbearing passion of love. Their language and manners are as peculiar to themselves, as their prowess and susceptibility. The pastoral Arcadian does not differ more widely from an ordinary rustic, than these lofty persons do from the princes and kings of this world. Neither is any circumstance of national character, or manners, allowed as an apology for altering the established character, which must be invariably sustained by the persons of the heroic drama. The religion, and the state of society of the country where the scene is laid, may be occasionally alluded to as authority for varying a procession, or introducing new dresses and decorations; but, in all other respects, an Indian Inca, attired in feathers, must hold the same dignity of deportment, and display the same powers of declamation, and ingenuity of argument, with a Roman emperor in his purple, or a feudal warrior in his armour; for the rule and decorum of this species of composition is too peremptory, to give way either to the current of human passions, or to the usages of nations. Gibbon has remarked, that the kings of the Gepidae, and the Ostrogoths in Corneille's tragedy of Attila, are profound politicians, and sentimental lovers;—a description which, with a varying portion of pride, courtesy, and heroism, will apply to almost all the characters in plays drawn upon this model.

It is impossible to conceive any thing more different from the old English drama, than the heroic plays which were introduced by Charles II. The former, in labouring to exhibit a variety and contrast of passions, tempers, or humours, frequently altogether neglected the dignity of the scene. In the heroical tragedy, on the other hand, nothing was to be indecorous, nothing grotesque: The personages were to speak, not as men, but as heroes; to whom, as statuaries have assigned a superiority of stature, so these poets have given an uniform grandeur of feeling and of expression. It may be thought, that this monotonous splendour of diction would have palled upon an English audience, less pleased generally with refinement, however elegant, than with bursts of passion, and flights of novelty. But Dryden felt his force in the line which he chose to pursue and recommend. The indescribable charms of his versification gratified the ear of the public, while their attention was engaged by the splendour of his images, and the matchless ingenuity of his arguments. It must also be admitted, that, by their total neglect of the unities, our ancient dramatic authors shocked the feelings of the more learned, and embarrassed the understanding of the less acute, among the spectators. We do not hold it treason to depart from the strict rules respecting time and place, inculcated by the ancients, and followed in the heroic plays. But it will surely be granted to us, that, where they can be observed, without the sacrifice of great beauties, or incurring such absurdities as Dennis has justly charged upon Cato, the play will be proportionally more intelligible on the stage, and more pleasing in the closet. And although we willingly censure the practice of driving argument, upon the stage, into metaphysical refinement, and rendering the contest of contrasted passions a mere combat in logic, yet we must equally condemn those tragedies, in which the poet sketches out the character with a few broken common-places, expressive of love, of rage, or of grief, and leaves the canvas to be filled up by the actor, according to his own taste, power, and inclination.

The Indian Emperor is an instance, what beautiful poetry may be united to, we had almost said thrown away upon, the heroic drama. The very first scene exhibits much of those beauties, and their attendant deformities. A modern audience would hardly have sate in patience to hear more than the first extravagant and ludicrous supposition of Cortez:

As if our old world modestly withdrew; And here, in private, had brought forth a new.

But had they condemned the piece for this uncommon case of parturition, they would have lost the beautiful and melodious verses, in which Cortez, and his followers, describe the advantages of the newly discovered world; and they would have lost the still more exquisite account, which, immediately after, Guyomar gives of the arrival of the Spanish fleet. Of the characters little need be said; they stalk on, in their own fairy land, in the same uniform livery, and with little peculiarity of discrimination. All the men, from Montezuma down to Pizarro, are brave warriors; and only vary, in proportion to the mitigating qualities which the poet has infused into their military ardour. The women are all beautiful, and all deeply in love; differing from each other only, as the haughty or tender predominates in their passion. But the charm of the poetry, and the ingenuity of the dialogue, render it impossible to peruse, without pleasure, a drama, the faults of which may be imputed to its structure, while its beauties are peculiar to Dryden.

The plot of the Indian Emperor is certainly of our author's own composition; since even the malignant assiduity of Langbaine has been unable to point out any author from whom it is borrowed. The play was first acted in 1665, and received with great applause.



CONNECTION OF THE INDIAN EMPEROR TO THE INDIAN QUEEN [A].

[Footnote A: This argument was printed, and dispersed amongst the audience upon the first night of representation. Hence Bayes is made to say, in the Rehearsal, that he had printed many reams, to instil into the audience some conception of his plot.]

The conclusion of the Indian Queen (part of which poem was wrote by me) left little matter for another story to be built on, there remaining but two of the considerable characters alive, viz. Montezuma and Orazia. Thereupon the author of this thought it necessary to produce new persons from the old ones; and considering the late Indian Queen, before she loved Montezuma, lived in clandestine marriage with her general Traxalla, from those two he has raised a son and two daughters, supposed to be left young orphans at their death. On the other side, he has given to Montezuma and Orazia, two sons and a daughter; all now supposed to be grown up to mens' and womens' estate; and their mother, Orazia, (for whom there was no further use in the story,) lately dead.

So that you are to imagine about twenty years elapsed since the coronation of Montezuma; who, in the truth of the history, was a great and glorious prince; and in whose time happened the discovery and invasion of Mexico, by the Spaniards, under the conduct of Hernando Cortez, who, joining with the Traxallan Indians, the inveterate enemies of Montezuma, wholly subverted that flourishing empire;—the conquest of which is the subject of this dramatic poem.

I have neither wholly followed the story, nor varied from it; and, as near as I could, have traced the native simplicity and ignorance of the Indians, in relation to European customs;—the shipping, armour, horses, swords, and guns of the Spaniards, being as new to them, as their habits and their language were to the Christians.

The difference of their religion from ours, I have taken from the story itself; and that which you find of it in the first and fifth acts, touching the sufferings and constancy of Montezuma in his opinions, I have only illustrated, not altered, from those who have written of it.



PROLOGUE

Almighty critics! whom our Indians here Worship, just as they do the devil—for fear; In reverence to your power, I come this day, To give you timely warning of our play. The scenes are old, the habits are the same We wore last year, before the Spaniards came[A]. Now, if you stay, the blood, that shall be shed From this poor play, be all upon your head. We neither promise you one dance, or show; Then plot, and language, they are wanting too: But you, kind wits, will those light faults excuse, Those are the common frailties of the muse; Which, who observes, he buys his place too dear; For 'tis your business to be cozened here. These wretched spies of wit must then confess, They take more pains to please themselves the less. Grant us such judges, Phoebus, we request, As still mistake themselves into a jest; Such easy judges, that our poet may Himself admire the fortune of his play; And, arrogantly, as his fellows do, Think he writes well, because he pleases you. This he conceives not hard to bring about, If all of you would join to help him out: Would each man take but what he understands, And leave the rest upon the poet's hands.

[Footnote A: Alluding to the Indian Queen, in which the scene is laid before the arrival of the Spaniards in America, and which was acted in 1664, as this was in 1665.]



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

INDIAN MEN.

MONTEZUMA, Emperor of Mexico. ODMAR, his eldest son. GUYOMAR, his younger son. ORBELLAN, son of the late Indian Queen by TRAXALLA. High Priest of the Sun.

WOMEN.

CYDARIA, MONTEZUMA'S daughter. ALMERIA, } Sisters; and daughters to the late ALIBECH, } Indian Queen.

SPANIARDS.

CORTEZ, the Spanish General. VASQUEZ, } Commanders under him. PIZARRO, }

SCENE—Mexico, and two leagues about it.



THE INDIAN EMPEROR.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—A pleasant Indian country.

Enter CORTEZ, VASQUEZ, PIZARRO, with Spaniards and Indians of their party.

Cort. On what new happy climate are we thrown, So long kept secret, and so lately known; As if our old world modestly withdrew, And here in private had brought forth a new?

Vasq. Corn, oil, and wine, are wanting to this ground, In which our countries fruitfully abound; As if this infant world, yet unarrayed, Naked and bare in Nature's lap were laid. No useful arts have yet found footing here, But all untaught and savage does appear.

Cort. Wild and untaught are terms which we alone Invent, for fashions differing from our own; For all their customs are by nature wrought, But we, by art, unteach what nature taught.

Piz. In Spain, our springs, like old men's children, be Decayed and withered from their infancy: No kindly showers fall on our barren earth, To hatch the season in a timely birth: Our summer such a russet livery wears, As in a garment often dyed appears.

Cort. Here nature spreads her fruitful sweetness round, Breathes on the air, and broods upon the ground: Here days and nights the only seasons be; The sun no climate does so gladly see: When forced from hence, to view our parts, he mourns; Takes little journies, and makes quick returns.

Vasq. Methinks, we walk in dreams on Fairy-land, Where golden ore lies mixt with common sand; Each downfal of a flood, the mountains pour From their rich bowels, rolls a silver shower.

Cort. Heaven from all ages wisely did provide This wealth, and for the bravest nation hide, Who, with four hundred foot and forty horse, Dare boldly go a new-found world to force.

Piz. Our men, though valiant, we should find too few, But Indians join the Indians to subdue; Taxallan, shook by Montezuma's powers, Has, to resist his forces, called in ours.

Vasq. Rashly to arm against so great a king, I hold not safe; nor is it just to bring A war, without a fair defiance made.

Piz. Declare we first our quarrel; then invade.

Cort. Myself, my king's ambassador, will go; Speak, Indian guide, how far to Mexico?

Ind. Your eyes can scarce so far a prospect make, As to discern the city on the lake; But that broad causeway will direct your way, And you may reach the town by noon of day.

Cort. Command a party of our Indians out, With a strict charge, not to engage, but scout: By noble ways we conquest will prepare; First, offer peace, and, that refused, make war.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—A Temple.

The High Priest with other Priests. To them an Indian.

Ind. Haste, holy priest, it is the king's command.

High Pr. When sets he forward?

Ind. He is near at hand.

High Pr. The incense is upon the altar placed, The bloody sacrifice already past; Five hundred captives saw the rising sun, Who lost their light, ere half his race was run. That which remains we here must celebrate; Where, far from noise, without the city gate, The peaceful power that governs love repairs, To feast upon soft vows and silent prayers. We for his royal presence only stay, To end the rites of this so solemn day.

[Exit Ind.

Enter MONTEZUMA; his eldest son, ODMAR; his daughter, CYDARIA; ALMERIA, ALIBECH, ORBELLAN, and Train. They place themselves.

High Pr. On your birthday, while we sing To our gods and to our king, Her, among this beauteous quire, Whose perfections you admire, Her, who fairest does appear, Crown her queen of all the year, Of the year and of the day, And at her feet your garland lay.

Odm. My father this way does his looks direct; Heaven grant, he give it not where I suspect!

[MONTEZUMA rises, goes about the Ladies, and at length stays at ALMERIA, and bows.

Mont. Since my Orazia's death, I have not seen A beauty, so deserving to be queen As fair Almeria.

Alm. Sure he will not know [To her brother and sister, aside. My birth I to that injured princess owe, Whom his hard heart not only love denied, But in her sufferings took unmanly pride.

Alib. Since Montezuma will his choice renew, In dead Orazia's room electing you, 'Twill please our mother's ghost that you succeed To all the glories of her rival's bed.

Alm. If news be carried to the shades below, The Indian queen will be more pleased, to know, That I his scorns on him, who scorned her, pay.

Orb. Would you could right her some more noble way!

[She turns to him, who is kneeling all this while.

Mont. Madam, this posture is for heaven designed, [Kneeling. And what moves heaven I hope may make you kind.

Alm. Heaven may be kind; the gods uninjured live. And crimes below cost little to forgive: By thee, inhuman, both my parents died; One by thy sword, the other by thy pride.

Mont. My haughty mind no fate could ever bow, Yet I must stoop to one, who scorns me now: Is there no pity to my sufferings due?

Alm. As much as what my mother found from you.

Mont. Your mother's wrongs a recompence shall meet; I lay my sceptre at her daughter's feet.

Alm. He, who does now my least commands obey, Would call me queen, and take my power away.

Odm. Can he hear this, and not his fetters break? Is love so powerful, or his soul so weak? I'll fright her from it.—Madam, though you see The king is kind, I hope your modesty Will know, what distance to the crown is due.

Alm. Distance and modesty prescribed by you!

Odm. Almeria dares not think such thoughts as these.

Alm. She dares both think and act what thoughts she please. Tis much below me on his throne to sit; But when I do, you shall petition it.

Odm. If, sir, Almeria does your bed partake, I mourn for my forgotten mother's' sake.

Mont. When parents' loves are ordered by a son, Let streams prescribe their fountains where to run.

Odm. In all I urge, I keep my duty still, Not rule your reason, but instruct your will.

Mont. Small use of reason in that prince is shown, Who follows others, and neglects his own.

[ALMERIA to ORBELLAN and ALIBECH, who are this while whispering to her.

Alm. No, he shall ever love, and always be The subject of my scorn and cruelty.

Orb. To prove the lasting torment of his life, You must not be his mistress, but his wife. Few know what care an husband's peace destroys, His real griefs, and his dissembled joys.

Alm. What mark of pleasing vengeance could be shown, If I, to break his quiet, lose my own?

Orb. A brother's life upon your love relics, Since I do homage to Cydaria's eyes: How can her father to my hopes be kind, If in your heart he no example find?

Alm. To save your life I'll suffer any thing, Yet I'll not flatter this tempestuous king; But work his stubborn soul a nobler way, And, if he love, I'll force him to obey. I take this garland, not as given by you, [To MONT. But as my merit and my beauty's due. As for the crown, that you, my slave, possess, To share it with you would but make me less.

Enter GUYOMAR hastily.

Odm. My brother Guyomar! methinks I spy Haste in his steps, and wonder in his eye.

Mont. I sent thee to the frontiers; quickly tell The cause of thy return; are all things well?

Guy. I went, in order, sir, to your command, To view the utmost limits of the land: To that sea-shore where no more world is found, But foaming billows breaking on the ground; Where, for a while, my eyes no object met, But distant skies, that in the ocean set; And low-hung clouds, that dipt themselves in rain, To shake their fleeces on the earth again. At last, as far as I could cast my eyes Upon the sea, somewhat, methought, did rise, Like blueish mists, which, still appearing more, Took dreadful shapes, and moved towards the shore.

Mont. What forms did these new wonders represent?

Guy. More strange than what your wonder can invent. The object, I could first distinctly view, Was tall straight trees, which on the waters flew; Wings on their sides, instead of leaves, did grow, Which gathered all the breath the winds could blow: And at their roots grew floating palaces, Whose outblowed bellies cut the yielding seas.

Mont. What divine monsters, O ye gods, were these, That float in air, and fly upon the seas! Came they alive, or dead, upon the shore?

Guy. Alas, they lived too sure; I heard them roar. All turned their sides, and to each other spoke; I saw their words break out in fire and smoke. Sure 'tis their voice, that thunders from on high, Or these the younger brothers of the sky. Deaf with the noise, I took my hasty flight; No mortal courage can support the fright.

High Pr. Old prophecies foretel our fall at hand, When bearded men in floating castles land. I fear it is of dire portent.

Mont. Go see What it foreshows, and what the gods decree. Meantime proceed we to what rites remain.— Odmar, of all this presence does contain, Give her your wreath, whom you esteem most fair.

Odm. Above the rest I judge one beauty rare, And may that beauty prove as kind to me, [He gives ALIBECH the wreath. As I am sure fair Alibech is she.

Mont. You, Guyomar, must next perform your part.

Guy. I want a garland, but I'll give a heart: My brother's pardon I must first implore, Since I with him fair Alibech adore.

Odm. That all should Alibech adore, 'tis true; But some respect is to my birthright due. My claim to her by eldership I prove.

Guy. Age is a plea in empire, not in love.

Odm. I long have staid for this solemnity, To make my passion public.

Guy. So have I.

Odm. But from her birth my soul has been her slave; My heart received the first wounds which she save: I watched the early glories of her eyes, As men for daybreak watch the eastern skies.

Guy. It seems my soul then moved the quicker pace; Yours first set out, mine reached her in the race.

Mont. Odmar, your choice I cannot disapprove; Nor justly, Guyomar, can blame your love. To Alibech alone refer your suit, And let her sentence finish your dispute.

Alib. You think me, sir, a mistress quickly won. So soon to finish what is scarce begun: In this surprise should I a judgment make, 'Tis answering riddles ere I'm well awake: If you oblige me suddenly to chuse, The choice is made, for I must both refuse: For to myself I owe this due regard, Not to make love my gift, but my reward. Time best will show, whose services will last.

Odm. Then judge my future service by my past. What I shall be, by what I was, you know: That love took deepest root, which first did grow.

Guy. That love, which first was set, will first decay; Mine, of a fresher date, will longer stay.

Odm. Still you forget my birth.

Guy. But you, I see, Take care still to refresh my memory.

Mont. My sons, let your unseemly discord cease, If not in friendship, live at least in peace. Orbellan, where you love, bestow your wreath.

Orb. My love I dare not, even in whispers, breathe.

Mont. A virtuous love may venture any thing.

Orb. Not to attempt the daughter of my king.

Mont. Whither is all my former fury gone? Once more I have Traxalla's chains put on, And by his children am in triumph led: Too well the living have revenged the dead!

Alm. You think my brother born your enemy; He's of Traxalla's blood, and so am I.

Mont. In vain I strive. My lion-heart is with love's toils beset; Struggling I fall still deeper in the net. Cydaria, your new lover's garland take, And use him kindly for your father's sake.

Cyd. So strong an hatred does my nature sway. That, spite of duty, I must disobey: Besides, you warned me still of loving two; Can I love him, already loving you?

Enter a Guard hastily.

Mont. You look amazed, as if some sudden fear Had seized your hearts; is any danger near?

1 Guard. Behind the covert, where this temple stands, Thick as the shades, there issue swarming bands Of ambushed men, whom, by their arms and dress, To be Taxallan enemies I guess.

2 Guard. The temple, sir, is almost compassed round.

Mont. Some speedy way for passage must be found. Make to the city by the postern gate, I'll either force my victory, or fate; A glorious death in arms I'll rather prove, Than stay to perish tamely by my love.

[Exeunt.

An alarm within. Enter MONTEZUMA, ODMAR, GUYOMAR, ALIBECH, ORBELLAN, CYDARIA, ALMERIA, as pursued by Taxallans.

Mont. No succour from the town?

Odm. None, none is nigh.

Guy. We are inclosed, and must resolve to die.

Mont. Fight for revenge, now hope of life is past But one stroke more, and that will be my last.

Enter CORTEZ, VASQUEZ, PIZARRO, to the Taxallans: CORTEZ stays them, just falling on.

Cort. Contemned? my orders broke even in my sight? Did I not strictly charge, you should not fight?

[To his Indians.

Ind. Your choler, general, does unjustly rise, To see your friends pursue your enemies. The greatest and most cruel foes we have, Are these, whom you would ignorantly save. By ambushed men, behind their temple laid, We have the king of Mexico betrayed.

Cort. Where, banished virtue, wilt thou shew thy face, If treachery infects thy Indian race? Dismiss your rage, and lay your weapons by: Know I protect them, and they shall not die.

Ind. O wondrous mercy, shewn to foes distrest!

Cort. Call them not so, when once with odds opprest; Nor are they foes my clemency defends, Until they have refused the name of friends: Draw up our Spaniards by themselves, then fire Our guns on all, who do not strait retire.

[To VASQ.

Ind. O mercy, mercy! at thy feet we fall, [Indians kneeling. Before thy roaring Gods destroy us all: See, we retreat without the least reply; Keep thy Gods silent! if they speak we die.

[The Taxallans retire.

Mont. The fierce Taxatlans lay their weapons down, Some miracle in our relief is shewn.

Guy. These bearded men in shape and colour be Like those I saw come floating on the sea.

[MONT. kneels to CORT.

Mont. Patron of Mexico, and God of wars, Son of the sun, and brother of the stars—

Cort. Great monarch, your devotion you misplace.

Mont. Thy actions shew thee born of heavenly race. If then thou art that cruel God, whose eyes Delight in blood, and human sacrifice, Thy dreadful altars I with slaves will store, And feed thy nostrils with hot reeking gore; Or if that mild and gentle God thou be, Who dost mankind below with pity see, With breath of incense I will glad thy heart; But if, like us, of mortal seed thou art, Presents of choicest fowls, and fruits I'll bring, And in my realms thou shalt be more than king.

Cort. Monarch of empires, and deserving more Than the sun sees upon your western shore; Like you a man, and hither led by fame, Not by constraint, but by my choice, I came; Ambassador of peace, if peace you chuse, Or herald of a war, if you refuse.

Mont. Whence, or from whom, dost thou these offers bring?

Cort. From Charles the Fifth, the world's most potent king.

Mont. Some petty prince, and one of little fame, For to this hour I never heard his name: The two great empires of the world I know, That of Peru, and this of Mexico; And since the earth none larger does afford, This Charles is some poor tributary lord.

Cort. You speak of that small part of earth you know; But betwixt us and you wide oceans flow, And watry desarts of so vast extent, That passing hither four full moons we spent.

Mont. But say, what news, what offers dost thou bring From so remote, and so unknown a king?

[While VASQUEZ speaks, CORTEZ spies the ladies and goes to them, entertaining CYDARIA with courtship in dumb shew.

Vasq. Spain's mighty monarch, to whom heaven thinks fit, That all the nations of the earth submit, In gracious clemency, does condescend On these conditions to become your friend. First, that of him you shall your sceptre hold; Next, you present him with your useless gold: Last, that you leave those idols you implore, And one true deity with him adore.

Mont. You speak your prince a mighty emperor, But his demands have spoke him proud and poor; He proudly at my free-born sceptre flies, Yet poorly begs a metal I despise. Gold thou mayest take, whatever thou canst find, Save what for sacred uses is designed: But, by what right pretends your king to be The sovereign lord of all the world and me?

Piz. The sovereign priest— Who represents on earth the power of heaven, Has this your empire to our monarch given.

Mont. Ill does he represent the powers above, Who nourishes debate, not preaches love; Besides, what greater folly can be shewn? He gives another what is not his own.

Vasq. His power must needs unquestioned be below, For he in heaven an empire can bestow.

Mont. Empires in heaven he with more ease may give, And you, perhaps, would with less thanks receive; But heaven has need of no such viceroy here, Itself bestows the crowns that monarchs wear.

Piz. You wrong his power, as you mistake our end, Who came thus far religion to extend.

Mont. He, who religion truly understands, Knows its extent must be in men, not lands.

Odm. But who are those that truth must propagate Within the confines of my father's state?

Vasq. Religious men, who hither must be sent As awful guides of heavenly government; To teach you penance, fasts, and abstinence, To punish bodies for the soul's offence.

Mont. Cheaply you sin, and punish crimes with ease, Not as the offended, but the offenders please; First injure heaven, and, when its wrath is due, Yourselves prescribe it how to punish you.

Odm. What numbers of these holy men must come?

Piz. You shall not want, each village shall have some; Who, though the royal dignity they own, Are equal to it, and depend on none.

Guy. Depend on none! you treat them sure in state, For 'tis their plenty does their pride create.

Mont. Those ghostly kings would parcel out my power, And all the fatness of my land devour. That monarch sits not safely on his throne Who bears, within, a power that shocks his own. They teach obedience to imperial sway, But think it sin if they themselves obey.

Vasq. It seems, then, our religion you accuse, And peaceful homage to our king refuse.

Mont. Your Gods I slight not, but will keep my own; My crown is absolute, and holds of none. I cannot in a base subjection live, Nor suffer you to take, though I would give.

Cort. Is this your answer, sir?

Mont.—This, as a prince, Bound to my people's and my crown's defence, I must return; but, as a man, by you Redeemed from death, all gratitude is due.

Cort. It was an act my honour bound me to: But what I did, were I again to do, I could not do it on my honour's score, For love would now oblige me to do more. Is no way left that we may yet agree? Must I have war, yet have no enemy?

Vasq. He has refused all terms of peace to take.

Mont. Since we must fight, hear, heavens, what prayers I make! First, to preserve this ancient state and me, But if your doom the fall of both decree, Grant only he, who has such honour shewn, When I am dust, may fill my empty throne!

Cort. To make me happier than that wish can do, Lies not in all your Gods to grant, but you; Let this fair princess but one minute stay, A look from her will your obligements pay.

[Exeunt MONTEZUMA, ODMAR, GUYOMAR, ORBELLAN, ALMERIA, and ALIBECH.

Mont. to Cyd. Your duty in your quick return be shewn.— Stay you, and wait my daughter to the town. [To his guards.

[CYDARIA is going, but turns and looks back upon CORTEZ, who is looking on her all this while.

Cyd. My father's gone, and yet I cannot go; Sure I have something lost or left behind!

[Aside.

Cort. Like travellers who wander in the snow, I on her beauty gaze 'till I am blind.

[Aside.

Cyd. Thick breath, quick pulse, and heaving of my heart, All signs of some unwonted change appear: I find myself unwilling to depart, And yet I know not why I would be here. Stranger, you raise such torments in my breast, That when I go, (if I must go again) I'll tell my father you have robbed my rest, And to him of your injuries complain.

Cort. Unknown, I swear, those wrongs were which I wrought, But my complaints will much more just appear, Who from another world my freedom brought, And to your conquering eyes have lost it here.

Cyd. Where is that other world, from whence you came?

Cort. Beyond the ocean, far from hence it lies.

Cyd. Your other world, I fear, is then the same, That souls must go to when the body dies. But what's the cause that keeps you here with me, That I may know what keeps me here with you?

Cort. Mine is a love which must perpetual be, If you can be so just as I am true.

Enter ORBELLAN.

Orb. Your father wonders much at your delay.

Cyd. So great a wonder for so small a stay!

Orb. He has commanded you with me to go.

Cyd. Has he not sent to bring the stranger too?

Orb. If he to-morrow dares in fight appear, His high-placed love perhaps may cost him dear.

Cort. Dares!—that word was never spoke to Spaniard yet, But forfeited his life, who gave him it; Haste quickly with thy pledge of safety hence, Thy guilt's protected by her innocence.

Cyd. Sure in some fatal hour my love was born, So soon o'ercast with absence in the morn!

Cort. Turn hence those pointed glories of your eyes; For if more charms beneath those circles rise, So weak my virtue, they so strong appear, I shall turn ravisher to keep you here.

[Exeunt.



ACT II.

SCENE I.—The Magician's Cave.

Enter MONTEZUMA, and High-Priest.

Mont. Not that I fear the utmost fate can do, Come I the event of doubtful war to know; For life and death are things indifferent; Each to be chose as either brings content: My motive from a nobler cause does spring, Love rules my heart, and is your monarch's king; I more desire to know Almeria's mind, Than all that heaven has for my state designed.

High Pr. By powerful charms, which nothing can withstand, I'll force the Gods to tell what you demand.

CHARM.

Thou moon, that aidest us with thy magic might, And ye small stars, the scattered seeds of light, Dart your pale beams into this gloomy place, That the sad powers of the infernal race May read above what's hid from human eyes, And in your walks see empires fall and rise. And ye, immortal souls, who once were men, And now, resolved to elements again, Who wait for mortal frames in depths below, And did before what we are doomed to do; Once, twice, and thrice, I wave my sacred wand, Ascend, ascend, ascend at my command.

[An earthy spirit rises.

Spir. In vain, O mortal men, your prayers implore The aid of powers below, which want it more: A God more strong, who all the Gods commands, Drives us to exile from our native lands; The air swarms thick with wandering deities, Which drowsily, like humming beetles, rise From our loved earth, where peacefully we slept, And, far from heaven, a long possession kept. The frighted satyrs, that in woods delight, Now into plains with pricked-up ears take flight; And scudding thence, while they their horn-feet ply, About their sires the little silvans cry. A nation loving gold must rule this place, Our temples ruin, and our rites deface: To them, O king, is thy lost sceptre given. Now mourn thy fatal search, for since wise heaven More ill than good to mortals does dispense, It is not safe to have too quick a sense.

[Descends.

Mont. Mourn they, who think repining can remove The firm decrees of those, who rule above; The brave are safe within, who still dare die: Whene'er I fall, I'll scorn my destiny. Doom as they please my empire not to stand, I'll grasp my sceptre with my dying hand.

High Pr. Those earthy spirits black and envious are; I'll call up other Gods, of form more fair: Who visions dress in pleasing colour still, Set all the good to shew, and hide the ill. Kalib, ascend, my fair-spoke servant rise, And sooth my heart with pleasing prophesies.

KALIB ascends all in white, in shape of a woman, and sings.

Kal. I looked and saw within the book of fate, Where, many days did lowr, When lo one happy hour Leapt up, and smiled to save thy sinking state; A day shall come when in thy power Thy cruel foes shall be; Then shall thy land be free, And thou in peace shalt reign. But take, O take that opportunity, Which, once refused, will never come again.

[Descends.

Mont. I shall deserve my fate, if I refuse That happy hour which heaven allots to use: But of my crown thou too much care dost take; That which I value more, my love's at stake.

High Pr. Arise, ye subtle spirits, that can spy, When love is entered in a female's eye; You, that can read it in the midst of doubt, And in the midst of frowns can find it out; You, that can search those many cornered minds, Where women's crooked fancy turns and winds; You, that can love explore, and truth impart, Where both lie deepest hid in woman's heart, Arise—

[The ghosts of TRAXALLA and ACACIS arise; they stand still, and point at MONTEZUMA.

High Pr. I did not for these ghastly visions send; Their sudden coming does some ill portend. Begone,—begone,—they will not disappear! My soul is seized with an unusual fear.

Mont. Point on, point on, and see whom you can fright. Shame and confusion seize these shades of night! Ye thin and empty forms, am I your sport? [They smile. If you were flesh— You know you durst not use me in this sort.

[The ghost of the Indian Queen rises betwixt the ghosts, with a dagger in her breast.

Mont. Ha! I feel my hair grow stiff, my eye-balls roll! This is the only form could shake my soul.

Ghost. The hopes of thy successful love resign; Know, Montezuma, thou art only mine; For those, who here on earth their passion shew By death for love, receive their right below. Why dost thou then delay my longing arms? Have cares, and age, and mortal life such charms? The moon grows sickly at the sight of day, And early cocks have summoned me away: Yet I'll appoint a meeting place below, For there fierce winds o'er dusky vallies blow, Whose every puff bears empty shades away, Which guidless in those dark dominions stray. Just at the entrance of the fields below, Thou shalt behold a tall black poplar grow; Safe in its hollow trunk I will attend, And seize thy spirit when thou dost descend.

[Descends.

Mont. I'll seize thee there, thou messenger of fate.— Would my short life had yet a shorter date! I'm weary of this flesh which holds us here, And dastards manly souls with hope and fear; These heats and colds still in our breast make war, Agues and fevers all our passions are. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

CYDARIA and ALIBECH, betwixt the two armies.

Alib. Blessings will crown your name, if you prevent That blood, which in this battle will be spent; Nor need you fear so just a suit to move, Which both becomes your duty and your love.

Cyd. But think you he will come? their camp is near, And he already knows I wait him here.

Alib. You are too young your power to understand, Lovers take wing upon the least command; Already he is here.

Enter CORTEZ and VASQUEZ to them.

Cort. Methinks, like two black storms on either hand, Our Spanish army and your Indians stand; This only space betwixt the clouds is clear, Where you, like day, broke loose from both appear.

Cyd. Those closing skies might still continue bright, But who can help it, if you'll make it night? The Gods have given you power of life and death, Like them to save, or ruin, with a breath.

Cort. That power they to your father did dispose, 'Twas in his choice to make us friends or foes.

Alib. Injurious strength would rapine still excuse, By offering terms the weaker must refuse; And such as these your hard conditions are, You threaten peace, and you invite a war.

Cort. If for myself to conquer here I came, You might perhaps my actions justly blame: Now I am sent, and am not to dispute My prince's orders, but to execute.

Alib. He, who his prince so blindly does obey, To keep his faith his virtue throws away.

Cort. Monarchs may err; but should each private breast Judge their ill acts, they would dispute their best.

Cyd. Then all your care is for your prince, I see; Your truth to him out-weighs your love to me: You may so cruel to deny me prove, But never after that pretend to love.

Cort. Command my life, and I will soon obey; To save my honour I my blood will pay.

Cyd. What is this honour which does love controul?

Cort. A raging fit of virtue in the soul; A painful burden which great minds must bear, Obtained with danger, and possest with fear.

Cyd. Lay down that burden if it painful grow; You'll find, without it, love will lighter go.

Cort. Honour, once lost, is never to be found.

Alib. Perhaps he looks to have both passions crowned; First dye his honour in a purple flood, Then court the daughter in the father's blood.

Cort. The edge of war I'll from the battle take, And spare her father's subjects for her sake.

Cyd. I cannot love you less when I'm refused. But I can die to be unkindly used; Where shall a maid's distracted heart find rest. If she can miss it in her lover's breast?

Cort. I till to-morrow will the fight delay; Remember you have conquered me to-day.

Alib. This grant destroys all you have urged before; Honour could not give this, or can give more. Our women in the foremost ranks appear; March to the fight, and meet your mistress there: Into the thickest squadrons she must run, Kill her, and see what honour will be won.

Cyd. I must he in the battle, but I'll go With empty quiver, and unbended bow; Not draw an arrow in this fatal strife, For fear its point should reach your noble life.

Enter PIZARRO.

Cort. No more: your kindness wounds me to the death: Honour, be gone! what art thou but a breath? I'll live, proud of my infamy and shame, Graced with no triumph but a lover's name; Men can but say, love did his reason blind, And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.— Draw off my men; the war's already done.

Piz. Your orders come too late, the fight's begun; The enemy gives on, with fury led, And fierce Orbellan combats at their head.

Cort. He justly fears, a peace with me would prove Of ill concernment to his haughty love; Retire, fair excellence! I go to meet New honour, but to lay it at your feet.

[Exeunt CORTEZ, VASQUEZ, and PIZARRO.]

Enter ODMAR and GUTOMAR, to ALIBECH and CYDARIA.

Odm. Now, madam, since a danger does appear Worthy my courage, though below my fear; Give leave to him, who may in battle die, Before his death, to ask his destiny.

Guy. He cannot die, whom you command to live; Before the fight, you can the conquest give; Speak, where you'll place it?

Alib. Briefly, then, to both, One I in secret love, the other loathe; But where I hate, my hate I will not show, And he, I love, my love shall never know; True worth shall gain me, that it may be said, Desert, not fancy, once a woman led. He who, in fight, his courage shall oppose, With most success, against his country's foes, From me shall all that recompence receive, That valour merits, or that love can give. 'Tis true, my hopes and fears are all for one, But hopes and fears are to myself alone. Let him not shun the danger of the strife; I but his love, his country claims his life.

Odm. All obstacles my courage shall remove.

Guy. Fall on, fall on.

Odm. For liberty!

Guy. For love!

[Exeunt, the women following.

SCENE III.—Changes to the Indian country.

Enter Montezuma, attended by the Indians.

Mont. Charge, charge! their ground the faint Taxallans yield! Bold in close ambush, base in open field. The envious devil did my fortune wrong:— Thus fought, thus conquered I, when I was young.

[Exit.

Alarm. Enter CORTEZ bloody.

Cort. Furies pursue these false Taxallans' flight; Dare they be friends to us, and dare not fight? What friends can cowards be, what hopes appear Of help from such, who, where they hate, show fear!

Enter PIZARRO and VASQUEZ.

Piz. The field grows thin; and those, that now remain, Appear but like the shadows of the slain.

Vasq. The fierce old king is vanished from the place, And, in a cloud of dust, pursues the chase.

Cort. Their eager chase disordered does appear, Command our horse to charge them in the rear: [To PIZARRO. You to our old Castilian foot retire, [To VASQ. Who yet stand firm, and at their backs give fire. [Exeunt severally.

SCENE IV.

Enter ODMAR and GUTOMAR, meeting each other in the battle.

Odm. Where hast thou been, since first the fight began, Thou less than woman in the shape of man?

Guy. Where I have done what may thy envy move, Things worthy of my birth, and of my love.

Odm. Two bold Taxallans with one dart I slew, And left it sticking ere my sword I drew.

Guy. I sought not honour on so base a train, Such cowards by our women may be slain; I felled along a man of bearded face, His limbs all covered with a shining case: So wondrous hard, and so secure of wound, It made my sword, though edged with flint, re-bound.

Odm. I killed a double man; the one half lay Upon the ground, the other ran away.

[_Guns go off within.

Enter_ Montezuma, _out of breath, with him_ Alibech, _and an Indian_.

Mont. All is lost!— Our foes with lightning and with thunder fight; My men in vain shun death by shameful flight: For deaths invisible come winged with fire, They hear a dreadful noise, and strait expire. Take, gods! that soul, ye did in spite create, And made it great, to be unfortunate: Ill fate for me unjustly you provide, Great souls are sparks of your own heavenly pride: That lust of power we from your godheads have, You're bound to please those appetites you gave.

Enter Vasquez and Pizarro, with Spaniards.

Vasq. Pizarro, I have hunted hard to-day, Into our toils, the noblest of the prey; Seize on the king, and him your prisoner make, While I, in kind revenge, my taker take.

[Pizarro, with two, goes to attack the king. Vasquez, with another, to seize Alibech.

Guy. Their danger is alike;—whom shall I free?

Odm. I'll follow love!

Guy. I'll follow piety!

[Odmar retreats from Vasquez, with Alibech, off the stage; Guyomar fights for his father.

Guy. Fly, sir! while I give back that life you gave; Mine is well lost, if I your life can save.

[Montezuma fights off; Guyomar, making his retreat, stays.

Guy. Tis more than man can do to scape them all; Stay, let me see where noblest I may fall.

[He runs at Vasquez, is seized behind and taken.

Vasq. Conduct him off, And give command, he strictly guarded be.

Guy. In vain are guards, death sets the valiant free.

[Exit Guyomar, with guards.

Vasq. A glorious day! and bravely was it fought; Great fame our general in great dangers sought; From his strong arm I saw his rival run, And, in a crowd, the unequal combat shun.

Enter Cortez leading Cydaria, who seems crying and begging of him.

Cort. Man's force is fruitless, and your gods would fail To save the city, but your tears prevail; I'll of my fortune no advantage make, Those terms, they had once given, they still may take.

Cyd. Heaven has of right all victory designed, Where boundless power dwells in a will confined; Your Spanish honour does the world excel.

Cort. Our greatest honour is in loving well.

Cyd. Strange ways you practise there, to win a heart; Here love is nature, but with you 'tis art.

Cort. Love is with us as natural as here, But fettered up with customs more severe. In tedious courtship we declare our pain, And, ere we kindness find, first meet disdain.

Cyd. If women love, they needless pains endure; Their pride and folly but delay their cure.

Cort. What you miscall their folly, is their care; They know how fickle common lovers are: Their oaths and vows are cautiously believed, For few there are but have been once deceived.

Cyd. But if they are not trusted when they vow, What other marks of passion can they show?

Cort. With feasts, and music, all that brings delight, Men treat their ears, their palates, and their sight.

Cyd. Your gallants, sure, have little eloquence, Failing to move the soul, they court the sense: With pomp, and trains, and in a crowd they woo, When true felicity is but in two; But can such toys your women's passions move? This is but noise and tumult, 'tis not love.

Cort. I have no reason, madam, to excuse Those ways of gallantry, I did not use; My love was true, and on a nobler score.

Cyd. Your love, alas! then have you loved before?

Cort. 'Tis true I loved, but she is dead, she's dead; And I should think with her all beauty fled, Did not her fair resemblance live in you, And, by that image, my first flames renew.

Cyd. Ah! happy beauty, whosoe'er thou art! Though dead, thou keep'st possession of his heart; Thou makest me jealous to the last degree, And art my rival in his memory: Within his memory! ah, more than so, Thou livest and triumph'st o'er Cydaria too.

Cort. What strange disquiet has uncalmed your breast, Inhuman fair, to rob the dead of rest!— Poor heart! she slumbers in her silent tomb; Let her possess in peace that narrow room.

Cyd. Poor heart!—he pities and bewails her death!— Some god, much hated soul, restore thy breath, That I may kill thee; but, some ease 'twill be, I'll kill myself for but resembling thee.

Cort. I dread your anger, your disquiet fear, But blows, from hands so soft, who would not bear? So kind a passion why should I remove? Since jealousy but shows how well we love. Yet jealousy so strange I never knew; Can she, who loves me not, disquiet you? For in the grave no passions fill the breast, 'Tis all we gain by death, to be at rest.

Cyd. That she no longer loves, brings no relief; Your love to her still lives, and that's my grief.

Cort. The object of desire once ta'en away, 'Tis then not love, but pity, which we pay.

Cyd. 'Tis such a pity I should never have, When I must lie forgotten in the grave; I meant to have obliged you, when I died, That, after me, you should love none beside.— But you are false already.

Cort. If untrue, By heaven! my falsehood is to her, not you.

Cyd. Observe, sweet heaven, how falsely he does swear!— You said, you loved me for resembling her.

Cort. That love was in me by resemblance bred, But shows you cheared my sorrows for the dead.

Cyd. You still repeat the greatness of your grief.

Cort. If that was great, how great was the relief!

Cyd. The first love still the strongest we account.

Cort. That seems more strong which could the first surmount: But if you still continue thus unkind, Whom I love best, you, by my death, shall find.

Cyd. If you should die, my death shall yours pursue; But yet I am not satisfied you're true.

Cort. Hear me, ye gods! and punish him you hear, If aught within the world I hold so dear.

Cyd. You would deceive the gods and me; she's dead, And is not in the world, whose love I dread.— Name not the world; say, nothing is so dear.

Cort. Then nothing is,—let that secure your fear.

Cyd. 'Tis time must wear it off, but I must go. Can you your constancy in absence show?

Cort. Misdoubt my constancy, and do not try, But stay, and keep me ever in your eye.

Cyd. If as a prisoner I were here, you might Have then insisted on a conqueror's right, And staid me here; but now my love would be The effect of force, and I would give it free.

Cort. To doubt your virtue, or your love, were sin! Call for the captive prince, and bring him in.

Enter Guyomar, bound and sad.

You look, sir, as your fate you could not bear: [To Guy. Are Spanish fetters, then, so hard to wear? Fortune's unjust, she ruins oft the brave, And him, who should be victor, makes the slave.

Guy. Son of the sun! my fetters cannot be But glorious for me, since put on by thee; The ills of love, not those of fate, I fear; These can I brave, but those I cannot bear: My rival brother, while I'm held in chains, In freedom reaps the fruit of all my pains.

Cort. Let it be never said that he, whose breast Is filled with love, should break a lover's rest.— Haste! lose no time!—your sister sets you free:— And tell the king, my generous enemy, I offer still those terms he had before, Only ask leave his daughter to adore.

Guy. Brother, (that name my breast shall ever own, [He embraces him. The name of foe be but in battles known;) For some few days all hostile acts forbear, That, if the king consents, it seem not fear: His heart, is noble, and great souls must be Most sought and courted in adversity.— Three days, I hope, the wished success will tell.

Cyd. Till that long time,—

Cort. Till that long time, farewell.

[Exeunt severally.



ACT III.

SCENE I.—A Chamber Royal.

Enter ODMAR and ALIBECH.

Odm. The gods, fair Alibech, had so decreed, Nor could my valour against fate succeed; Yet though our army brought not conquest home, I did not from the fight inglorious come: If, as a victor, you the brave regard, Successless courage, then, may hope reward; And I, returning safe, may justly boast, To win the prize which my dear brother lost.

Enter GUYOMAR behind him.

Guy. No, no, thy brother lives! and lives to be A witness, both against himself and thee; Though both in safety are returned again, I blush to ask her love for vanquished men.

Odm. Brother, I'll not dispute but you are brave; Yet I was free, and you, it seems, a slave.

Guy. Odmar, 'tis true that I was captive led; As publicly 'tis known, as that you fled: But of two shames, if she must one partake, I think the choice will not be hard to make.

Odm. Freedom and bondage in her choice remain; Darest thou expect she will put on thy chain?

Guy. No, no, fair Alibech, give him the crown, My brother is returned with high renown: He thinks by flight his mistress must be won, And claims the prize, because he best did run.

Alib. Your chains were glorious, and your flight was wise, But neither have o'ercome your enemies: My secret wishes would my choice decide, But open justice bends to neither side.

Odm. Justice already does my right approve, If him, who loves you most, you most should love. My brother poorly from your aid withdrew, But I my father left, to succour you.

Guy. Her country she did to herself prefer, Him who fought best, not who defended her; Since she her interest, for the nation's, waved, Then I, who saved the king, the nation saved. You, aiding her, your country did betray; I, aiding him, did her commands obey.

Odm. Name it no more; in love there is a time When dull obedience is the greatest crime. She to her country's use resigned your sword, And you, kind lover, took her at her word; You did your duty to your love prefer, Seek your reward from duty, not from her.

Guy. In acting what my duty did require, 'Twas hard for me to quit my own desire; That fought for her, which, when I did subdue, 'Twas much the easier task I left to you.

Alib. Odmar a more than common love has shown, And Guyomar's was greater, or was none; Which I should chuse, some god direct my breast. The certain good, or the uncertain best.— I cannot chuse,—you both dispute in vain,— Time and your future acts must make it plain; First raise the siege, and set your country free, I, not the judge, but the reward, will be.

To them, Enter MONTEZUMA, talking with ALMERIA and ORBELLAN.

Mont. Madam, I think, with reason, I extol The virtue of the Spanish general; When all the gods our ruin have foretold, Yet generously he does his arms withhold, And, offering peace, the first conditions make.

Alm. When peace is offered, 'tis too late to take; For one poor loss, to stoop to terms like those!— Were we o'ercome, what could they worse impose? Go, go, with homage your proud victors meet! Go, lie like dogs beneath your masters' feet! Go, and beget them slaves to dig their mines, And groan for gold, which now in temples shines! Your shameful story shall record of me, The men all crouched, and left a woman free!

Guy. Had I not fought, or durst not fight again, I my suspected counsel should refrain; For I wish peace, and any terms prefer, Before the last extremities of war. We but exasperate those we cannot harm, And fighting gains us but to die more warm: If that be cowardice, which dares not see The insolent effects of victory, The rape of matrons, and their childrens cries,— Then I am fearful, let the brave advise.

Odm. Keen cutting swords, and engines killing far, Have prosperously begun a doubtful war: But now our foes with less advantage fight, Their strength decreases with our Indians' fright.

Mont. This noble vote does with my wish comply,— I am for war.

Alm. And so am I.

Orb. And I.

Mont. Then send to break the truce, and I'll take care To chear the soldiers, and for fight prepare.

[Exeunt MONT. ODM. GUY. and ALIB.

Alm. to Orb. 'Tis now the hour which all to rest allow, And sleep sits heavy upon every brow; In this dark silence softly leave the town, [GUYOMAR returns, and hears them. And to the general's tent,—'tis quickly known,— Direct your steps: You may despatch him: strait, Drowned in his sleep, and easy for his fate: Besides, the truce will make the guards more slack.

Orb. Courage, which leads me on, will bring me back.— But I more fear the baseness of the thing: Remorse, you know, bears a perpetual sting.

Alm. For mean remorse no room the valiant find, Repentance is the virtue of weak minds; For want of judgment keeps them doubtful still, They may repent of good, who can of ill; But daring courage makes ill actions good, 'Tis foolish pity spares a rival's blood; You shall about it strait.

[Exeunt ALM. and ORB.

Guy. Would they betray His sleeping virtue, by so mean a way!— And yet this Spaniard is our nation's foe,— I wish him dead,—but cannot wish it so;— Either my country never must be freed, Or I consenting to so black a deed.— Would chance had never led my steps this way! Now if he dies, I murder him, not they;— Something must be resolved ere 'tis too late;— He gave me freedom, I'll prevent his fate.

[Exit.

SCENE II.—A Camp.

Enter CORTEZ alone, in a night-gown.

Cort. All things are hushed, as nature's self lay dead; The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head; The little birds, in dreams, their songs repeat, And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew sweat. Even lust and envy sleep; yet love denies Rest to my soul, and slumber to my eyes.— Three days I promised to attend my doom, And two long days and nights are yet to come:— 'Tis sure the noise of some tumultuous fight, [Noise within. They break the truce, and sally out by night.

Enter ORBELLAN, flying in the dark, his sword drawn.

Orb. Betrayed! pursued! O, whither shall I fly? See, see! the just reward of treachery!— I'm sure among the tents, but know not where; Even night wants darkness to secure my fear.

[Comes near CORTEZ, who hears him.

Cort. Stand! who goes there?

Orb. Alas, what shall I say?— [Aside. A poor Taxallan that mistook his way, And wanders in the terrors of the night.

Cort. Soldier, thou seem'st afraid; whence comes thy fright?

Orb. The insolence of Spaniards caused my fear, Who in the dark pursued me entering here.

Cort. Their crimes shall meet immediate punishment, But stay thou safe within the general's tent.

Orb. Still worse and worse.

Cort. Fear not, but follow me; Upon my life I'll set thee safe and free.

[CORTEZ leads him in, and returns. To him VASQUEZ, PIZARRO, and Spaniards with Torches.

Vasq. O sir, thank heaven, and your brave Indian friend, That you are safe; Orbellan did intend This night to kill you sleeping in your tent: But Guyomar his trusty slave has sent, Who, following close his silent steps by night, Till in our camp they both approached the light, Cried-Seize the traitor, seize the murtherer! The cruel villain fled I know not where; But far he is not, for he this way bent.

Piz. The enraged soldiers seek, from tent to tent, With lighted torches, and in love to you, With bloody vows his hated life pursue.

Vasq. This messenger does, since he came, relate, That the old king, after a long debate, By his imperious mistress blindly led, Has given Cydaria to Orbellan's bed.

Cort. Vasquez, the trusty slave with you retain; Retire a while, I'll call you back again. [Exeunt VASQ. and PIZ. CORTEZ at his tent door. Indian, come forth; your enemies are gone, And I, who saved you from them, here alone.

Enter ORBELLAN, holding his face aside.

You hide your face, as you were still afraid: Dare you not look on him, who gave you aid?

Orb. Moon, slip behind some cloud, some tempest, rise, And blow out all the stars that light the skies, To shrowd my shame!

Cort. In vain you turn aside, And hide your face; your name you cannot hide: I know my rival and his black design.

Orb. Forgive it, as my passion's fault, not mine.

Cort. In your excuse your love does little say; You might, howe'er, have took a fairer way.

Orb. 'Tis true, my passion small defence can make; Yet you must spare me for your honour's sake, That was engaged to set me safe and free.

Cort. 'Twas to a stranger, not an enemy: Nor is it prudence to prolong thy breath, When all my hopes depend upon thy death; Yet none shall tax me with base perjury: Something I'll do, both for myself and thee; With vowed revenge my soldiers search each tent, If thou art seen, none can thy death prevent; Follow my steps with silence and with haste.

SCENE III.

They go out, the Scene changes to the Indian Country, they return.

Cort. Now you are safe, you have my outguards past.

Orb. Then here I take my leave.

Cort. Orbellan, no; When you return, you to Cydaria go: I'll send a message.

Orb. Let it be exprest; I am in haste.

Cort. I'll write it in your breast.

[Draws.

Orb. What means my rival?

Cort. Either fight or die, I'll not strain honour to a point too high; I saved your life, and keep it if you can, Cydaria shall be for the bravest man; On equal terms you shall your fortune try, Take this, and lay your flint-edged weapon by; [Gives him a sword. I'll arm you for my glory, and pursue No palm, but what's to manly virtue due. Fame, with my conquest, shall my courage tell. This you shall gain, by placing love so well.

Orb. Fighting with you, ungrateful I appear.

Cort. Under that shadow, thou would'st hide thy fear: Thou would'st possess thy love at thy return, And in her arms my easy virtue scorn.

Orb. Since we must fight, no longer let's delay; The moon shines clear, and makes a paler day.

[They fight, ORBELLAN is wounded in the hand, his sword falls out of it.

Cort. To courage, even of foes, there's pity due; It was not I, but fortune, vanquished you: [Throws his sword again. Thank me with that, and so dispute the prize, As if you fought before Cydaria's eyes.

Orb. I would not poorly such a gift requite; You gave me not this sword to yield, but fight: [He strives to hold it, but cannot. But see, where yours has forced its bloody way; My wounded hand my heart does ill obey.

Cort. Unlucky honour, that controul'st my will? Why have I vanquished, since I must not kill? Fate sees thy life lodged in a brittle glass, And looks it through, but to it cannot pass.

Orb. All I can do is frankly to confess,— I wish I could, but cannot, love her less: To swear I would resign her, were but vain, Love would recal that perjured breath again; And in my wretched case, 'twill be more just, Not to have promised, than deceive your trust. Know, if I live once more to see the town, In bright Cydaria's arms my love I'll crown.

Cort. In spite of that, I give thee liberty, And with thy person leave thy honour free; But to thy wishes move a speedy pace, Or death will soon o'ertake thee in the chase.— To arms, to arms; fate shows my love the way, I'll force the city on thy nuptial day.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE IV.—Mexico.

Enter MONTEZUMA, ODMAR, GUYOMAR, ALMERIA.

Mont. It moves my wonder, that in two days space, This early famine spreads so swift a pace.

Odm. 'Tis, sir, the general cry; nor seems it strange, The face of plenty should so swiftly change: This city never felt a siege before, But from the lake received its daily store; Which now shut up, and millions crowded here, Famine will soon in multitudes appear.

Mont. The more the number, still the greater shame.

Alm. What if some one should seek immortal fame, By ending of the siege at one brave blow?

Mont. That were too happy!

Alm. Yet it may be so. What if the Spanish general should be slain?

Guy. Just heavens I hope, does otherwise ordain.

[Aside.

Mont. If slain by treason, I lament his death.

Enter ORBELLAN, and whispers his sister.

Odm. Orbellan seems in haste, and out of breath.

Mont. Orbellan, welcome; you are early here, A bridegroom's haste does in your looks appear.

[ALMERIA aside to her brother.

Alm. Betrayed! no, 'twas thy cowardice and fear; He had not 'scaped with life, had I been there: But since so ill you act a brave design, Keep close your shame;—fate makes the next turn mine.

Enter ALIBECH and CYDARIA.

Alib. O sir, if ever pity touched your breast, Let it be now to your own blood exprest: In tears your beauteous daughter drowns her sight, Silent as dews that fall in dead of night.

Cyd. To your commands I strict obedience owe, And my last act of it I come to show: I want the heart to die before your eyes, But grief will finish that which fear denies.

Alm. Your will should by your father's precept move.

Cyd. When he was young, he taught me truth in love.

Alm. He found more love than he deserved, 'tis true, And that, it seems, is lucky too to you; Your father's folly took a headstrong course, But I'll rule yours, and teach you love by force.

Enter Messenger.

Mess. Arm, arm, O king! the enemy comes on, A sharp assault already is begun; Their murdering guns play fiercely on the walls.

Odm. Now, rival, let us run where honour calls.

Guy. I have discharged what gratitude did owe, And the brave Spaniard is again my foe.

[Exeunt ODMAR and GUYOMAR.

Mont. Our walls are high, and multitudes defend: Their vain attempt must in their ruin end; The nuptials with my presence shall be graced.

Alib. At least but stay 'till the assault be past.

Alm. Sister, in vain you urge him to delay, The king has promised, and he shall obey.

Enter second Messenger.

2 Mess. From several parts the enemy's repelled, One only quarter to the assault does yield.

Enter third Messenger.

3 Mess. Some foes are entered, but they are so few, They only death, not victory, pursue.

Orb. Hark, hark, they shout! From virtue's rules I do too meanly swerve, I, by my courage, will your love deserve.

[Exit.

Mont. Here, in the heart of all the town, I'll stay; And timely succour, where it wants, convey.

A noise within. Enter ORBELLAN, Indians driven in, CORTEZ after them, and one or two Spaniards.

Cort. He's found, he's found! degenerate coward, stay: Night saved thee once, thou shalt not scape by day.

[Kills ORBELLAN.

Orb. O, I am killed—

[Dies.

Enter GUYOMAR and ODMAR.

Guy. Yield, generous stranger, and preserve your life; Why chuse you death in this unequal strife?