q_. 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 trium