Odmar. But from her birth my soul has been her slave; My heart receiv'd the first wounds which she gave:

I watch'd the early glories of her eyes,

As men for day-break watch the eastern skies.

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

Cortez. Great monarch, your devotion you misplace.
Mont. Thy actions show thee born of heav'nly 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.

Spirit. In vain, O mortal men, your pray'rs implore
The aid of pow'rs 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 wand'ring deities,
Which drowsily like humming beetles rise
From our lov'd earth, where peacefully we slept,
And far from heav'n a long possession kept.
The frighted satyrs that in woods delight,
Now into plains with prick'd-up ears take flight;
And scudding thence, while they their horn-feet ply,
About their sires the little sylvans cry.

A nation loving gold must rule this place,
Our temples ruin, and our rites deface:
To them, O king, is thy lost sceptre giv'n.

Now mourn thy fatal search, for since wise Heav'n

More ill than good to mortals does dispense,
It is not safe to have too quick a sense.

Ghost. The moon grows sickly at the sight of day,
And early cocks have summon'd me away:
Yet I'll appoint a meeting-place below,
For there fierce winds o'er dusky valleys blow,
Whose every puff bears empty shades away,
Which guideless 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.

Cydaria. Ah happy beauty, whosoe'er thou art! Though dead, thou keep'st possession of his heart; Thou mak'st me jealous to the last degree,

And art my rival in his memory;

Within his memory, ah, more than so,

Thou liv'st and triumph'st o'er Cydaria too.

Cortez. What strange disquiet has uncalm'd 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!

Guyomar. 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 exasp'rate 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 children's cries;
hen I am fearful; let the brave advise.

Cortez. All things are hush'd, 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;
Ev'n lust and envy sleep, yet love denies
Rest to my soul, and slumber to my eyes.

Cortez. Indian, come forth, your enemies are gone,
And I, who sav'd 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 shroud my shame.

Cortez.

In vain you turn aside,

And hide your face, your name you cannot hide;
I know my rival and his black design.

Almeria. I cannot kill thee; sure thou bear'st some

charm,

[Goes back.

[Aside.

[Comes again.

Or some divinity holds back my arm.
Why do I thus delay to make him bleed?
Can I want courage for so brave a deed?
I've shook it off; my soul is free from fear.
And I can now strike any where- -but here:
His scorn of death how strangely does it move!
A mind so haughty who could choose but love!
Plead not a charm, or any god's command;
Alas, it is thy heart that holds thy hand:
In spite of me I love, and see too late

My mother's pride must find my mother's fate.

[Goes off.

Alibech. You heard, and I well know the town's distress, Which sword and famine both at once oppress: Famine so fierce, that what's denied man's use, Even deadly plants, and herbs of pois'nous juice,

Wild hunger seeks; and to prolong our breath,
We greedily devour our certain death:
The soldier, in th' assault, of famine falls:

And ghosts, not men, are watching on the walls.
As callow birds

prey,

Whose mother's kill'd in seeking of the
Cry in their nest, and think her long away;
And at each leaf that stirs, each blast of wind,
Gape for the food which they must never find:
So cry the people in their misery.

Alm. All hopes of safety, and of love, are gone: As when some dreadful thunder-clap is nigh, The winged fire shoots swiftly through the sky, Strikes and consumes, ere scarce it does appear, And by the sudden ill, prevents the fear: Such is my state in this amazing woe, It leaves no power to think, much less to do.

Mont. Thou art deceiv'd: for whensoe'er I die, The sun, my father, bears my soul on high: He lets me down a beam, and mounted there, He draws it back, and pulls me through the air: I in the eastern parts, and rising sky,

You in Heav'n's downfal, and the west, must lie.

Mont. All hope of succour, but from thee, is past: As when, upon the sands, the traveller Sees the high sea come rolling from afar, The land grow short, he mends his weary pace, While death behind him covers all the place: So I by swift misfortunes am pursued,

Which on each other are like waves renew'd.

Guy. Northward, beyond the mountains we will go, Where rocks lie cover'd with eternal snow, Thin herbage in the plains and fruitless fields, The sand no gold, the mine no silver yields: There love and freedom we'll in peace enjoy; No Spaniards will that colony destroy. We to ourselves will all our wishes grant; And nothing coveting, can nothing want.

THE MAIDEN QUEEN. 1666 or 1667.

Philocles. My love inspires me with a gen'rous though Which you, unknowing, in those wishes taught. Since happiness may out of courts be found, Why stay we here on this enchanted ground, And choose not rather with content to dwell

(If love and we can find it) in a cell?

Candiope. Those who, like you, have once in cour been great,

May think they wish, but wish not, to retreat.
They seldom go, but when they cannot stay;
As losing gamesters throw the dice away:
E'en in that cell, where you repose would find,
Visions of court will haunt your restless mind;\
And glorious dreams stand ready to restore
The pleasing shapes of all you had before.

Phil. He who with your possession once is blest,
On easy terms may part with all the rest.
All my ambition will in you be crown'd;
And those white arms shall all my wishes bound.
Our life shall be but one long nuptial day,
And like chaf'd odours, melt in sweets away;
Soft as the night our minutes shall be worn,
And cheerful as the birds that wake the morn.

ess,