Chapter XXIV: Act III

SCENE I.--_A Terrace Walk; or some other public place in the castle of Alcazar._

_Enter Emperor_ MULEY-MOLUCH, _and_ BENDUCAR.

_Emp._ Married! I'll not believe it; 'tis imposture; Improbable they should presume to attempt, Impossible they should effect their wish.

_Bend._ Have patience, till I clear it.

_Emp._ I have none: Go bid our moving plains of sand lie still, And stir not, when the stormy south blows high: From top to bottom thou hast tossed my soul, And now 'tis in the madness of the whirl, Requir'st a sudden stop? unsay thy lie; That may in time do somewhat.

_Bend._ I have done: For, since it pleases you it should be forged, 'Tis fit it should: far be it from your slave To raise disturbance in your sacred breast.

_Emp._ Sebastian is my slave as well as thou; Nor durst offend my love by that presumption.

_Bend._ Most sure he ought not.

_Emp._ Then all means were wanting: No priest, no ceremonies of their sect; Or, grant we these defects could be supplied, How could our prophet do an act so base, So to resume his gifts, and curse my conquests, By making me unhappy? No, the slave, That told thee so absurd a story, lied.

_Bend._ Yet till this moment I have found him faithful: He said he saw it too.

_Emp._ Dispatch; what saw he?

_Bend._ Truth is, considering with what earnestness Sebastian pleaded for Almeyda's life, Enhanced her beauty, dwelt upon her praise--

_Emp._ O stupid, and unthinking as I was! I might have marked it too; 'twas gross and palpable.

_Bend._ Methought I traced a lover ill disguised, And sent my spy, a sharp observing slave, To inform me better, if I guessed aright. He told me, that he saw Sebastian's page Run cross the marble square, who soon returned, And after him there lagged a puffing friar; Close wrapt he bore some secret instrument Of Christian superstition in his hand: My servant followed fast, and through a chink Perceived the royal captives hand in hand; And heard the hooded father mumbling charms, That make those misbelievers man and wife; Which done, the spouses kissed with such a fervour, And gave such furious earnest of their flames, That their eyes sparkled, and their mantling blood Flew flushing o'er their faces.

_Emp._ Hell confound them!

_Bend._ The reverend father, with a holy leer, Saw he might well be spared, and soon withdrew: This forced my servant to a quick retreat, For fear to be discovered.--Guess the rest.

_Emp._ I do: My fancy is too exquisite, And tortures me with their imagined bliss. Some earthquake should have risen and rent the ground, Have swallowed him, and left the longing bride In agony of unaccomplished love. [_Walks disorderly._

_Enter the Mufti._

_Bend._ In an unlucky hour That fool intrudes, raw in this great affair, And uninstructed how to stem the tide.-- [_Aside._ [_Coming up the Mufti,--aside._] The emperor must not marry, nor enjoy:-- Keep to that point: Stand firm, for all's at stake.

_Emp._ [_Seeing him._] You druggerman[4] of heaven, must I attend Your droning prayers? Why came ye not before? Dost thou not know the captive king has dared To wed Almeyda? Cancel me that marriage, And make her mine: About the business, quick!-- Expound thy Mahomet; make him speak my sense, Or he's no prophet here, and thou no Mufti; Unless thou know'st the trick of thy vocation, To wrest and rend the law, to please thy prince.

_Muf._ Why, verily, the law is monstrous plain: There's not one doubtful text in all the alcoran, Which can be wrenched in favour to your project.

_Emp._ Forge one, and foist it into some bye-place Of some old rotten roll: Do't, I command thee! Must I teach thee thy trade?

_Muf._ It cannot be; For matrimony being the dearest point Of law, the people have it all by heart: A cheat on procreation will not pass. Besides, [_In a higher tone._] the offence is so exorbitant, To mingle with a misbelieving race, That speedy vengeance would pursue your crime, And holy Mahomet launch himself from heaven, Before the unready thunderbolts were formed. [_Emperor, taking him by the throat with one hand, snatches out his sword with the other, and points it to his breast._

_Emp._ Slave, have I raised thee to this pomp and power, To preach against my will?--Know, I am law; And thou, not Mahomet's messenger but mine!-- Make it, I charge thee, make my pleasure lawful; Or, first, I strip thee of thy ghostly greatness, Then send thee post to tell thy tale above. And bring thy vain memorials to thy prophet, Of justice done below for disobedience.

_Muf._ For heaven's sake hold!--The respite of a moment!-- To think for you--

_Emp._ And for thyself.

_Muf._ For both.

_Bend._ Disgrace, and death, and avarice, have lost him! [_Aside._

_Muf._ 'Tis true, our law forbids to wed a Christian; But it forbids you not to ravish her. You have a conqueror's right upon your slave; And then the more despite you do a Christian, You serve the prophet more, who loathes that sect.

_Emp._ O, now it mends; and you talk reason, Mufti.-- But, stay! I promised freedom to Sebastian; Now, should I grant it, his revengeful soul Would ne'er forgive his violated bed.

_Muf._ Kill him; for then you give him liberty: His soul is from his earthly prison freed.

_Emp._ How happy is the prince who has a churchman, So learned and pliant, to expound his laws!

_Bend._ Two things I humbly offer to your prudence.

_Emp._ Be brief, but let not either thwart my love.

_Bend._ First, since our holy man has made rape lawful, Fright her with that; Proceed not yet to force: Why should you pluck the green distasteful fruit From the unwilling bough, When it may ripen of itself, and fall?

_Emp._ Grant her a day; though that's too much to give Out of a life which I devote to love.

_Bend._ Then, next, to bar All future hopes of her desired Sebastian, Let Dorax be enjoined to bring his head.

_Emp._ [_To the Mufti._] Go, Mufti, call him to receive his orders.-- [_Exit Mufti._ I taste thy counsel; her desires new roused, And yet unslaked, will kindle in her fancy, And make her eager to renew the feast.

_Bend._ [_Aside._] Dorax, I know before, will disobey: There's a foe's head well cropped.-- But this hot love precipitates my plot, And brings it to projection ere its time.

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ALMEYDA, _hand in hand; upon sight of the
Emperor, they separate, and seem disturbed._

_Alm._ He breaks at unawares upon our walks, And, like a midnight wolf, invades the fold. Make speedy preparation of your soul, And bid it arm apace: He comes for answer, And brutal mischief sits upon his brow.

_Seb._ Not the last sounding could surprise me more, That summons drowsy mortals to their doom, When called in haste to fumble for their limbs, And tremble, unprovided for their charge: My sense has been so deeply plunged in joys, The soul out-slept her hour; and, scarce awake, Would think too late, but cannot: But brave minds, At worst, can dare their fate. [_Aside._

_Emp._ [_Coming up to them._] Have you performed Your embassy, and treated with success?

_Seb._ I had no time.

_Emp._ No, not for my affairs; But, for your own, too much.

_Seb._ You talk in clouds; explain your meaning, sir.

_Emp._ Explain yours first.--What meant you, hand in hand? And, when you saw me, with a guilty start, You loosed your hold, affrighted at my presence.

_Seb._ Affrighted!

_Emp._ Yes, astonished and confounded.

_Seb._ What mak'st thou of thyself, and what of me? Art thou some ghost, some demon, or some god, That I should stand astonished at thy sight? If thou could'st deem so meanly of my courage, Why didst thou not engage me man for man, And try the virtue of that Gorgon face, To stare me into statue?

_Emp._ Oh, thou art now recovered; but, by heaven, Thou wert amazed at first, as if surprised At unexpected baseness brought to light. For know, ungrateful man, that kings, like gods, Are every where; walk in the abyss of minds, And view the dark recesses of the soul.

_Seb._ Base and ungrateful never was I thought; Nor, till this turn of fate, durst thou have called me: But, since thou boast'st the omniscience of a god, Say in what cranny of Sebastian's soul, Unknown to me, so loathed a crime is lodged?

_Emp._ Thou hast not broke my trust, reposed in thee!

_Seb._ Imposed, but not received.--Take back that falsehood.

_Emp._ Thou art not married to Almeyda?

_Seb._ Yes.

_Emp._ And own'st the usurpation of my love?

_Seb._ I own it, in the face of heaven and thee; No usurpation, but a lawful claim, Of which I stand possessed.

_Emp._ She has chosen well, Betwixt a captive and a conqueror.

_Alm._ Betwixt a monster, and the best of men!-- He was the envy of his neighbouring kings; For him their sighing queens despised their lords; And virgin daughters blushed when he was named. To share his noble chains is more to me, Than all the savage greatness of thy throne.

_Seb._ Were I to chuse again, and knew my fate, For such a night I would be what I am. The joys I have possessed are ever mine; Out of thy reach; behind eternity; Hid in the sacred treasure of the past: But blest remembrance brings them hourly back.

_Emp._ Hourly indeed, who hast but hours to live. O, mighty purchase of a boasted bliss! To dream of what thou hadst one fugitive night, And never shalt have more!

_Seb._ Barbarian, thou canst part us but a moment! We shall be one again in thy despite. Life is but air, That yields a passage to the whistling sword, And closes when 'tis gone.

_Alm._ How can we better die than close embraced, Sucking each other's souls while we expire? Which, so transfused, and mounting both at once, The saints, deceived, shall, by a sweet mistake, Hand up thy soul for mine, and mine for thine.

_Emp._ No, I'll untwist you: I have occasion for your stay on earth. Let him mount first, and beat upon the wing, And wait an age for what I here detain; Or sicken at immortal joys above, And languish for the heaven he left below.

_Alm._ Thou wilt not dare to break what heaven has joined?

_Emp._ Not break the chain; but change a rotten link, And rivet one to last. Think'st thou I come to argue right and wrong?-- Why lingers Dorax thus? Where are my guards, [BENDUCAR _goes out for the Guards, and returns._ To drag that slave to death?-- [_Pointing to_ SEB. Now storm and rage; Call vainly on thy prophet, then defy him For wanting power to save thee.

_Seb._ That were to gratify thy pride. I'll shew thee How a man should, and how a king dare die! So even, that my soul shall walk with ease Out of its flesh, and shut out life as calmly As it does words; without a sign to note One struggle, in the smooth dissolving frame.

_Alm._ [_To the Emp._] Expect revenge from heaven, inhuman wretch! Nor hope to ascend Sebastian's holy bed. Flames, daggers, poisons, guard the sacred steps: Those are the promised pleasures of my love.

_Emp._ And these might fright another, but not me; Or me, if I designed to give you pleasure. I seek my own; and while that lasts, you live.--

_Enter two of the Guards._

Go, bear the captive to a speedy death, And set my soul at ease.

_Alm._ I charge you hold, ye ministers of death!-- Speak my Sebastian; Plead for thy life; Oh, ask it of the tyrant: 'Tis no dishonour; trust me, love, 'tis none. I would die for thee, but I cannot plead; My haughty heart disdains it, even for thee.-- Still silent! Will the king of Portugal Go to his death like a dumb sacrifice? Beg him to save my life in saving thine.

_Seb._ Farewell; my life's not worth another word.

_Emp._ [_To the Guards._] Perform your orders.

_Alm._ Stay, take my farewell too! Farewell the greatness of Almeyda's soul!-- Look, tyrant, what excess of love can do; It pulls me down thus low as to thy feet; [_Kneels to him._ Nay, to embrace thy knees with loathing hands, Which blister when they touch thee: Yet even thus, Thus far I can, to save Sebastian's life.

_Emp._ A secret pleasure trickles through my veins: It works about the inlets of my soul, To feel thy touch, and pity tempts the pass: But the tough metal of my heart resists; 'Tis warmed with the soft fire, not melted down.

_Alm._ A flood of scalding tears will make it run. Spare him, Oh spare! Can you pretend to love, And have no pity? Love and that are twins. Here will I grow; Thus compass you with these supplanting cords, And pull so long till the proud fabrick falls.

_Emp._ Still kneel, and still embrace: 'Tis double pleasure, So to be hugged, and see Sebastian die.

_Alm._ Look, tyrant, when thou nam'st Sebastian's death, Thy very executioners turn pale. Rough as they are, and hardened in their trade Of death, they start at an anointed head, And tremble to approach.--He hears me not, Nor minds the impression of a god on kings; Because no stamp of heaven was on his soul, But the resisting mass drove back the seal.-- Say, though thy heart be rock of adamant, Yet rocks are not impregnable to bribes: Instruct me how to bribe thee; name thy price; Lo, I resign my title to the crown; Send me to exile with the man I love, And banishment is empire.

_Emp._ Here's my claim, [_Clapping his Hand to his Sword._ And this extinguished thine; thou giv'st me nothing.

_Alm._ My father's, mother's, brother's death, I pardon; That's somewhat sure; a mighty sum of murder, Of innocent and kindred blood struck off. My prayers and penance shall discount for these, And beg of heaven to charge the bill on me: Behold what price I offer, and how dear, To buy Sebastian's life!

_Emp._ Let after-reckonings trouble fearful fools; I'll stand the trial of those trivial crimes: But, since thou begg'st me to prescribe my terms, The only I can offer are thy love, And this one day of respite to resolve. Grant, or deny; for thy next word is fate, And fate is deaf to prayer.

_Alm._ May heaven be so, [_Rising up._ At thy last breath, to thine! I curse thee not; For, who can better curse the plague, or devil, Than to be what they are? That curse be thine.-- Now, do not speak, Sebastian, for you need not; But die, for I resign your life.--Look, heaven, Almeyda dooms her dear Sebastian's death! But is there heaven? for I begin to doubt; The skies are hushed, no grumbling thunders roll.-- Now take your swing, ye impious; sin unpunished; Eternal Providence seems overwatched, And with a slumbering nod assents to murder.

_Enter_ DORAX, _attended by three Soldiers._

_Emp._ Thou mov'st a tortoise-pace to my relief. Take hence that once a king; that sullen pride, That swells to dumbness: lay him in the dungeon, And sink him deep with irons, that, when he would, He shall not groan to hearing; when I send, The next commands are death.

_Alm._ Then prayers are vain as curses.

_Emp._ Much at one In a slave's mouth, against a monarch's power. This day thou hast to think; At night, if thou wilt curse, thou shalt curse kindly; Then I'll provoke thy lips, lay siege so close, That all thy sallying breath shall turn to blessings.-- Make haste, seize, force her, bear her hence.

_Alm._ Farewell, my last Sebastian! I do not beg, I challenge justice now.-- O Powers, if kings be your peculiar care, Why plays this wretch with your prerogative? Now flash him dead, now crumble him to ashes, Or henceforth live confined in your own palace; And look not idly out upon a world, That is no longer yours. [_She is carried off struggling; Emperor and_ BENDUCAR _follow._ SEBASTIAN _struggles in his Guards' arms, and shakes off one of them; but two others come in, and hold him; he speaks not all the while._

_Dor._ I find I'm but a half-strained villain yet; But mongrel-mischievous; for my blood boiled, To view this brutal act; and my stern soul Tugged at my arm, to draw in her defence. [_Aside._ Down, thou rebelling Christian in my heart! Redeem thy fame on this Sebastian first; [_Walks a turn._ Then think on other wrongs, when thine are righted. But how to right them? on a slave disarmed, Defenceless, and submitted to my rage? A base revenge is vengeance on myself:-- [_Walks again._ I have it, and I thank thee, honest head, Thus present to me at my great necessity.-- [_Comes up to_ SEBASTIAN. You know me not?

_Seb._ I hear men call thee Dorax.

_Dor._ 'Tis well; you know enough for once:--you speak too; You were struck mute before.

_Seb._ Silence became me then.

_Dor._ Yet we may talk hereafter.

_Seb._ Hereafter is not mine: Dispatch thy work, good executioner.

_Dor._ None of my blood were hangmen; add that falsehood To a long bill, that yet remains unreckoned.

_Seb._ A king and thou can never have a reckoning.

_Dor._ A greater sum, perhaps, than you can pay. Meantime, I shall make bold to increase your debt; [_Gives him his Sword._ Take this, and use it at your greatest need.

_Seb._ This hand and this have been acquainted well: [_Looks on it._ It should have come before into my grasp, To kill the ravisher.

_Dor._ Thou heard'st the tyrant's orders; guard thy life When 'tis attacked, and guard it like a man.

_Seb._ I'm still without thy meaning, but I thank thee.

_Dor._ Thank me when I ask thanks; thank me with that.

_Seb._ Such surly kindness did I never see.

_Dor._ [_To the Captain of his Guards._] Musa, draw out a file; pick man by man. Such who dare die, and dear will sell their death. Guard him to the utmost; now conduct him hence, And treat him as my person.

_Seb._ Something like That voice, methinks, I should have somewhere heard; But floods of woes have hurried it far off, Beyond my ken of soul. [_Exit_ SEBASTIAN, _with the Soldiers._

_Dor._ But I shall bring him back, ungrateful man! I shall, and set him full before thy sight, When I shall front thee, like some staring ghost, With all my wrongs about me.--What, so soon Returned? this haste is boding.

_Enter to him Emperor,_ BENDUCAR, _and_ MUFTI.

_Emp._ She's still inexorable, still imperious, And loud, as if, like Bacchus, born in thunder. Be quick, ye false physicians of my mind; Bring speedy death, or cure.

_Bend._ What can be counselled, while Sebastian lives? The vine will cling, while the tall poplar stands; But, that cut down, creeps to the next support, And twines as closely there.

_Emp._ That's done with ease; I speak him dead:--proceed.

_Muf._ Proclaim your marriage with Almeyda next, That civil wars may cease; this gains the crowd: Then you may safely force her to your will; For people side with violence and injustice, When done for public good.

_Emp._ Preach thou that doctrine.

_Bend._ The unreasonable fool has broached a truth, That blasts my hopes; but, since 'tis gone so far, He shall divulge Almeyda is a Christian; If that produce no tumult, I despair. [_Aside._

_Emp_ Why speaks not Dorax?

_Dor._ Because my soul abhors to mix with him. Sir, let me bluntly say, you went too far, To trust the preaching power on state-affairs To him, or any heavenly demagogue: 'Tis a limb lopt from your prerogative, And so much of heaven's image blotted from you.

_Muf._ Sure thou hast never heard of holy men, (So Christians call them) famed in state affairs! Such as in Spain, Ximenes, Albornoz; In England, Wolsey; match me these with laymen.

_Dor._ How you triumph in one or two of these, Born to be statesmen, happening to be churchmen! Thou call'st them holy; so their function was: But tell me, Mufti, which of them were saints?-- Next sir, to you: the sum of all is this,-- Since he claims power from heaven, and not from kings, When 'tis his interest, he can interest heaven To preach you down; and ages oft depend On hours, uninterrupted, in the chair.

_Emp._ I'll trust his preaching, while I rule his pay; And I dare trust my Africans to hear Whatever he dare preach.

_Dor._ You know them not. The genius of your Moors is mutiny; They scarcely want a guide to move their madness; Prompt to rebel on every weak pretence; Blustering when courted, crouching when opprest; Wise to themselves, and fools to all the world; Restless in change, and perjured to a proverb. They love religion sweetened to the sense; A good, luxurious, palatable faith. Thus vice and godliness,--preposterous pair!-- Ride cheek by jowl, but churchmen hold the reins: And whene'er kings would lower clergy-greatness, They learn too late what power the preachers have, And whose the subjects are; the Mufti knows it, Nor dares deny what passed betwixt us two.

_Emp._ No more; whate'er he said was my command.

_Dor._ Why, then, no more, since you will hear no more; Some kings are resolute to their own ruin.

_Emp._ Without your meddling where you are not asked, Obey your orders, and dispatch Sebastian.

_Dor._ Trust my revenge; be sure I wish him dead.

_Emp._ What mean'st thou? What's thy wishing to my will? Dispatch him; rid me of the man I loath.

_Dor_ I hear you, sir; I'll take my time, and do't.

_Emp._ Thy time! What's all thy time? What's thy whole life To my one hour of ease? No more replies, But see thou dost it; or--

_Dor._ Choke in that threat; I can say _or_ as loud.

_Emp._ 'Tis well; I see my words have no effect, But I may send a message to dispose you. [_Is going off._

_Dor._ Expect an answer worthy of that message.

_Muf._ The prophet owed him this; And, thanked be heaven, he has it. [_Aside._

_Bend._ By holy Alla, I conjure you stay, And judge not rashly of so brave a man. [_Draws the Emperor aside, and whispers him._ I'll give you reasons why he cannot execute Your orders now, and why he will hereafter.

_Muf._ Benducar is a fool, to bring him off; I'll work my own revenge, and speedily. [_Aside._

_Bend._ The fort is his, the soldiers' hearts are his; A thousand Christian slaves are in the castle, Which he can free to reinforce his power; Your troops far off, beleaguering Larache, Yet in the Christians' hands.

_Emp._ I grant all this; But grant me he must die.

_Bend._ He shall, by poison; 'Tis here, the deadly drug, prepared in powder, Hot as hell fire: Then, to prevent his soldiers From rising to revenge their general's death, While he is struggling with his mortal pangs, The rabble on the sudden may be raised To seize the castle.

_Emp._ Do't;--'tis left to thee.

_Bend._ Yet more;--but clear your brow, for he observes.
[_They whisper again._

_Dor._ What, will the favourite prop my falling fortunes? O prodigy of court! [_Aside_ [_Emp. and_ BEND. _return to_ DOR.

_Emp._ Your friend has fully cleared your innocence; I was too hasty to condemn unheard, And you, perhaps, too prompt in your replies. As far as fits the majesty of kings, I ask excuse.

_Dor._ I'm sure I meant it well.

_Emp._ I know you did:--This to our love renewed.-- [_Emp. drinks._ Benducar, fill to Dorax. [BEND. _turns, and mixes a Powder in it._

_Dor._ Let it go round, for all of us have need To quench our heats: 'Tis the king's health, Benducar, [_He drinks._ And I would pledge it, though I knew 'twere poison.

_Bend._ Another bowl; for what the king has touched, And you have pledged, is sacred to your loves. [_Drinks out of another Bowl._

_Muf._ Since charity becomes my calling, thus Let me provoke your friendship; and heaven bless it, As I intend it well. [_Drinks; and, turning aside, pours some drops out of a little vial into the Bowl; then presents it to_ DORAX.

_Dor._ Heaven make thee honest; On that condition we shall soon be friends. [_Drinks._

_Muf._ Yes, at our meeting in another world; For thou hast drunk thy passport out of this. Not the Nonacrian font, nor Lethe's lake, Could sooner numb thy nimble faculties, Than this, to sleep eternal. [_Aside._

_Emp._ Now farewell, Dorax; this was our first quarrel, And, I dare prophecy, will prove our last. [_Exeunt Emp._ BEND. _and the Mufti._

_Dor._ It may be so.--I'm strangely discomposed; Quick shootings thro' my limbs, and pricking pains, Qualms at my heart, convulsions in my nerves, Shiverings of cold, and burnings of my entrails, Within my little world make medley war, Lose and regain, beat, and are beaten back, As momentary victors quit their ground.-- Can it be poison! Poison's of one tenor, Or hot, or cold; this neither, and yet both. Some deadly draught, some enemy of life, Boils in my bowels, and works out my soul. Ingratitude's the growth of every clime; Africk, the scene removed, is Portugal. Of all court service, learn the common lot,-- To-day 'tis done, to-morrow 'tis forgot. Oh, were that all! my honest corpse must lie Exposed to scorn, and public infamy; My shameful death will be divulged alone; The worth and honour of my soul unknown. [_Exit._

SCENE II.--_A Night-Scene of the Mufti's Garden, where an Arbour is discovered._

_Enter_ ANTONIO.

_Ant._ She names herself Morayma; the Mufti's only daughter, and a virgin! This is the time and place that she appointed in her letter, yet she comes not. Why, thou sweet delicious creature, why torture me with thy delay! Dar'st thou be false to thy assignation? What, in the cool and silence of the night, and to a new lover?--Pox on the hypocrite, thy father, for instructing thee so little in the sweetest point of his religion.--Hark, I hear the rustling of her silk mantle. Now she comes, now she comes:--no, hang it, that was but the whistling of the wind through the orange-trees.--Now, again, I hear the pit-a-pat of a pretty foot through the dark alley:--No, 'tis the son of a mare, that's broken loose, and munching upon the melons.--Oh, the misery of an expecting lover! Well, I'll e'en despair, go into my arbour, and try to sleep; in a dream I shall enjoy her, in despite of her. [_Goes into the Arbour, and lies down._

_Enter_ JOHAYMA, _wrapt up in a Moorish mantle._

_Joh._ Thus far my love has carried me, almost without my knowledge whither I was going. Shall I go on? shall I discover myself?--What an injury am I doing to my old husband! Yet what injury, since he's old, and has three wives, and six concubines, besides me! 'tis but stealing my own tithe from him. [_She comes a little nearer the Arbour._

_Ant._ [_Raising himself a little, and looking._] At last 'tis she; this is no illusion, I am sure; 'tis a true she-devil of flesh and blood, and she could never have taken a fitter time to tempt me.

_Joh._ He's young and handsome--

_Ant._ Yes, well enough, I thank nature. [_Aside._

_Joh._ And I am yet neither old nor ugly: Sure he will not refuse me.

_Ant._ No; thou may'st pawn thy maidenhead upon't, he wont. [_Aside._

_Joh._ The Mufti would feast himself upon other women, and keep me fasting.

_Ant._ O, the holy curmudgeon! [_Aside._

_Joh._ Would preach abstinence, and practise luxury! but, I thank my stars, I have edified more by his example than his precept.

_Ant._ [_Aside._] Most divinely argued; she's the best casuist in all Africk. [_He rushes out, and embraces her._] I can hold no longer from embracing thee, my dear Morayma; the old unconscionable whoreson, thy father, could he expect cold chastity from a child of his begetting?

_Joh._ What nonsense do you talk? do you take me for the Mufti's daughter?

_Ant._ Why, are you not, madam? [_Throwing off her barnus._

_Joh._ I find you had an appointment with Morayma.

_Ant._ By all that's good, the nauseous wife! [_Aside._

_Joh._ What! you are confounded, and stand mute?

_Ant._ Somewhat nonplust, I confess, to hear you deny your name so positively. Why, are not you Morayma, the Mufti's daughter? Did not I see you with him: did not he present me to you? were you not so charitable as to give me money? ay, and to tread upon my foot, and squeeze my hand too, if I may be so bold to remember you of past favours?

_Joh._ And you see I am come to make them good; but I am neither Morayma, nor the Mufti's daughter.

_Ant._ Nay, I know not that: but I am sure he is old enough to be your father; and either father, or reverend father, I heard you call him.

_Joh._ Once again, how came you to name Morayma?

_Ant._ Another damned mistake of mine: for, asking one of my fellow-slaves, who were the chief ladies about the house, he answered me, Morayma and Johayma; but she, it seems, is his daughter, with a pox to her, and you are his beloved wife.

_Joh._ Say your beloved mistress, if you please; for that's the title I desire. This moonshine grows offensive to my eyes; come, shall we walk into the arbour? there we may rectify all mistakes.

_Ant._ That's close and dark.

_Joh._ And are those faults to lovers?

_Ant._ But there I cannot please myself with the sight of your beauty.

_Joh._ Perhaps you may do better.

_Ant._ But there's not a breath of air stirring.

_Joh._ The breath of lovers is the sweetest air; but you are fearful.

_Ant._ I am considering indeed, that, if I am taken with you--

_Joh._ The best way to avoid it is to retire, where we may not be discovered.

_Ant._ Where lodges your husband?

_Joh._ Just against the face of this open walk.

_Ant._ Then he has seen us already, for aught I know.

_Joh._ You make so many difficulties, I fear I am displeasing to you.

_Ant._ [_Aside._] If Morayma comes, and takes me in the arbour with her, I have made a fine exchange of that diamond for this pebble.

_Joh._ You are much fallen off, let me tell you, from the fury of your first embrace.

_Ant._ I confess I was somewhat too furious at first, but you will forgive the transport of my passion; now I have considered it better, I have a qualm of conscience.

_Joh._ Of conscience! why, what has conscience to do with two young lovers that have opportunity?

_Ant._ Why, truly, conscience is something to blame for interposing in our matters: but how can I help it, if I have a scruple to betray my master?

_Joh._ There must be something more in't; for your conscience was very quiet when you took me for Morayma.

_Ant._ I grant you, madam, when I took you for his daughter; for then I might have made you an honourable amends by marriage.

_Joh._ You Christians are such peeking sinners! you tremble at a shadow in the moonshine.

_Ant._ And you Africans are such termagants, you stop at nothing. I must be plain with you,--you are married, and to a holy man, the head of your religion: go back to your chamber; go back, I say, and consider of it for this night, as I will do on my part: I will be true to you, and invent all the arguments I can to comply with you; and who knows but at our next meeting the sweet devil may have more power over me? I am true flesh and blood, I can tell you that for your comfort.

_Joh._ Flesh without blood, I think thou art; or, if any, it is as cold as that of fishes. But I'll teach thee, to thy cost, what vengeance is in store for refusing a lady who has offered thee her love.--Help, help, there! will nobody come to my assistance?

_Ant._ What do you mean, madam? for heaven's sake, peace; your husband will hear you; think of your own danger, if you will not think of mine.

_Joh._ Ungrateful wretch, thou deservest no pity!--Help, help, husband, or I shall be ravished! the villain will be too strong for me! Help, help, for pity of a poor distressed creature!

_Ant._ Then I have nothing but impudence to assist me: I must drown
her clamour, whatever comes on't. [_He takes out his Flute, and plays
as loud as he can possibly, and
she continues crying out._

_Enter the_ MUFTI, _in his Night-gown, and two Servants._

_Muf._ O thou villain, what horrible impiety art thou committing! what, ravishing the wife of my bosom!--Take him away; ganch him[5], impale him, rid the world of such a monster! [_Servants seize him._

_Ant._ Mercy, dear master, mercy! hear me first, and after, if I have deserved hanging, spare me not. What have you seen to provoke you to this cruelty?

_Muf._ I have heard the outcries of my wife; the bleatings of the poor innocent lamb.--Seen nothing, sayst thou? If I see the lamb lie bleeding, and the butcher by her with his knife drawn, and bloody, is not that evidence sufficient of the murder? I come too late, and the execution is already done.

_Ant._ Pray think in reason, sir; is a man to be put to death for a similitude? No violence has been committed; none intended; the lamb's alive: and, if I durst tell you so, no more a lamb than I am a butcher.

_Joh._ How's that, villain, dar'st thou accuse me?

_Ant._ Be patient, madam, and speak but truth, and I'll do any thing to serve you: I say again, and swear it too, I'll do any thing to serve you. [_Aside._

_Joh._ [_Aside._] I understand him; but I fear it is now too late to save him:--Pray, hear him speak, husband; perhaps he may say something for himself; I know not.

_Muf._ Speak thou, has he not violated my bed, and thy honour?

_Joh._ I forgive him freely, for he has done nothing. What he will do hereafter to make me satisfaction, himself best knows.

_Ant._ Any thing, any thing, sweet madam: I shall refuse no drudgery.

_Muf._ But did he mean no mischief? was he endeavouring nothing?

_Joh._ In my conscience, I begin to doubt he did not.

_Muf._ It's impossible:--then what meant all those outcries?

_Joh._ I heard music in the garden, and at an unseasonable time of night; and I stole softly out of my bed, as imagining it might be he.

_Muf._ How's that, Johayma? imagining it was he, and yet you went?

_Joh._ Why not, my lord? am not I the mistress of the family? and is it not my place to see good order kept in it? I thought he might have allured some of the she-slaves to him, and was resolved to prevent what might have been betwixt him and them; when, on the sudden, he rushed out upon me, caught me in his arms with such a fury--

_Muf._ I have heard enough.--Away with him!

_Joh._ Mistaking me, no doubt, for one of his fellow-slaves: with that, affrighted as I was, I discovered myself, and cried aloud; but as soon as ever he knew me, the villain let me go; and I must needs say, he started back as if I were some serpent; and was more afraid of me than I of him.

_Muf._ O thou corrupter of my family, that's cause enough of death!--once again, away with him.

_Joh._ What, for an intended trespass? No harm has been done, whatever may be. He cost you five hundred crowns, I take it.

_Muf._ Thou say'st true, a very considerable sum: he shall not die, though he had committed folly with a slave; it is too much to lose by him.

_Ant._ My only fault has ever been to love playing in the dark; and the more she cried, the more I played, that it might be seen I intended nothing to her.

_Muf._ To your kennel, sirrah; mortify your flesh, and consider in whose family you are.

_Joh._ And one thing more,--remember from henceforth to obey better.

_Muf._ [_Aside._] For all her smoothness, I am not quite cured of my jealousy; but I have thought of a way that will clear my doubts. [_Exit_ MUF. _with_ JOH. _and Servants._

_Ant._ I am mortified sufficiently already, without the help of his ghostly counsel. Fear of death has gone farther with me in two minutes, than my conscience would have gone in two months. I find myself in a very dejected condition, all over me; poor sin lies dormant; concupiscence is retired to his winter-quarters; and if Morayma should now appear,--I say no more; but, alas for her and me! [MORAYMA _comes out of the Arbour, she steals behind him, and claps him on the Back._

_Mor._ And if Morayma should appear, as she does appear,--alas! you say, for her and you.

_Ant._ Art thou there, my sweet temptation! my eyes, my life, my soul, my all!

_Mor._ A mighty compliment! when all these, by your own confession, are just nothing.

_Ant._ Nothing, till thou camest to new create me; thou dost not know the power of thy own charms: Let me embrace thee, and thou shalt see how quickly I can turn wicked.

_Mor._ [_Stepping back._] Nay, if you are so dangerous, it is best keeping you at a distance, I have no mind to warm a frozen snake in my bosom; he may chance to recover, and sting me for my pains.

_Ant._ Consider what I have suffered for thy sake already, and make me some amends; two disappointments in a night: O cruel creature!

_Mor._ And you may thank yourself for both. I came eagerly to the charge before my time, through the back-walk behind the arbour; and you, like a fresh-water soldier, stood guarding the pass before. If you missed the enemy, you may thank your own dulness.

_Ant._ Nay, if you will be using stratagems, you shall give me leave to make use of my advantages, now I have you in my power: we are fairly met; I'll try it out, and give no quarter.

_Mor._ By your favour, sir, we meet upon treaty now, and not upon defiance.

_Ant._ If that be all, you shall have _carte blanche_ immediately; for I long to be ratifying.

_Mor._ No; now I think on't, you are already entered into articles with my enemy Johayma:--"Any thing to serve you, madam; I shall refuse no drudgery:"--Whose words were those, gentleman? was that like a cavalier of honour?

_Ant._ Not very heroic; but self-preservation is a point above honour and religion too. Antonio was a rogue, I must confess; but you must give me leave to love him.

_Mor._ To beg your life so basely, and to present your sword to your enemy; Oh, recreant!

_Ant._ If I had died honourably, my fame indeed would have sounded loud, but I should never have heard the blast:--Come, don't make yourself worse-natured than you are; to save my life, you would be content I should promise any thing.

_Mor._ Yes, if I were sure you would perform nothing.

_Ant._ Can you suspect I would leave you for Johayma?

_Mor._ No; but I can expect you would have both of us. Love is covetous; I must have all of you; heart for heart is an equal trick. In short, I am younger, I think handsomer, and am sure I love you better. She has been my stepmother these fifteen years: You think that is her face you see, but it is only a daubed vizard; she wears an armour of proof upon it; an inch thick of paint, besides the wash. Her face is so fortified, that you can make no approaches to it without a shovel; but, for her constancy, I can tell you for your comfort, she will love till death, I mean till yours; for when she has worn you out, she will certainly dispatch you to another world, for fear of telling tales, as she has already served three slaves, your predecessors, of happy memory, in her favours. She has made my pious father a three-piled cuckold to my knowledge; and now she would be robbing me of my single sheep too.

_Ant._ Pr'ythee, prevent her then; and at least take the shearing of me first.

_Mor._ No; I'll have a butcher's pennyworth of you; first secure the carcase, and then take the fleece into the bargain.

_Ant._ Why, sure, you did not put yourself and me to all this trouble for a dry come-off; by this hand-- [_Taking it._

_Mor._ Which you shall never touch, but upon better assurances than you imagine. [_Pulling her hand away._

_Ant._ I'll marry thee, and make a Christian of thee, thou pretty damned infidel.

_Mor._ I mean you shall; but no earnest till the bargain be made before witness: there is love enough to be had, and as much as you can turn you to, never doubt; but all upon honourable terms.

_Ant._ I vow and swear by Love; and he's a deity in all religions.

_Mor._ But never to be trusted in any: he has another name too, of a worse sound. Shall I trust an oath, when I see your eyes languishing, your cheeks flushing, and can hear your heart throbbing? No, I'll not come near you: he's a foolish physician, who will feel the pulse of a patient, that has the plague-spots upon him.

_Ant._ Did one ever hear a little moppet argue so perversely against so good a cause! Come, pr'ythee, let me anticipate a little of my revenue.

_Mor._ You would fain be fingering your rents before-hand; but that makes a man an ill husband ever after. Consider, marriage is a painful vocation, as you shall prove it; manage your incomes as thriftily as you can, you shall find a hard task on't to make even at the year's end, and yet to live decently.

_Ant._ I came with a Christian intention to revenge myself upon thy father, for being the head of a false religion.

_Mor._ And so you shall; I offer you his daughter for your second. But since you are so pressing, meet me under my window to-morrow night, body for body, about this hour; I'll slip down out of my lodging, and bring my father in my hand.

_Ant._ How, thy father!

_Mor._ I mean, all that's good of him; his pearls and jewels, his whole contents, his heart and soul; as much as ever I can carry! I'll leave him his Alcoran, that's revenue enough for him; every page of it is gold and diamonds. He has the turn of an eye, a demure smile, and a godly cant, that are worth millions to him. I forgot to tell you, that I will have a slave prepared at the postern gate, with two horses ready saddled.--No more, for I fear I may be missed; and think I hear them calling for me.--If you have constancy and courage--

_Ant._ Never doubt it; and love in abundance, to wander with thee all the world over.

_Mor._ The value of twelve hundred thousand crowns in a casket!--

_Ant._ A heavy burden, heaven knows! but we must pray for patience to support it.

_Mor._ Besides a willing titt, that will venture her corps with you. Come, I know you long to have a parting blow with me; and therefore, to shew I am in charity-- [_He kisses her._

_Ant._ Once more for pity, that I may keep the flavour upon my lips till we meet again.

_Mor._ No, frequent charities make bold beggars; and, besides, I have learned of a falconer, never to feed up a hawk when I would have him fly. That's enough; but, if you would be nibbling, here's a hand to stay your stomach. [_Kissing her hand._

_Ant._ Thus conquered infidels, that wars may cease, Are forced to give their hands, and sign the peace.

_Mor._ Thus Christians are outwitted by the foe; You had her in your power, and let her go. If you release my hand, the fault's not mine; You should have made me seal, as well as sign. [_She runs off, he follows her to the door; then comes back again, and goes out at the other._