way to bliss is not designed;
For though some more may know, and some know less,
Yet all must know enough for happiness.

_Chr. Pr_. If in this middle way you still pretend
To stay, your journey never will have end.

_Mont_. Howe'er, 'tis better in the midst to stay,
Than wander farther in uncertain way.

_Chr. Pr_. But we by martyrdom our faith avow.

_Mont_. You do no more than I for ours do now.
To prove religion true--
If either wit or sufferings would suffice,
All faiths afford the constant and the wise:
And yet even they, by education swayed,
In age defend what infancy obeyed.

_Chr. Pr_. Since age by erring childhood is misled,
Refer yourself to our unerring head.

_Mont_. Man, and not err! what reason can you give?

_Chr. Pr_. Renounce that carnal reason, and believe.

_Mont_. The light of nature should I thus betray,
'Twere to wink hard, that I might see the day.

_Chr. Pr_. Condemn not yet the way you do not know;
I'll make your reason judge what way to go.

_Mont_. 'Tis much too late for me new ways to take,
Who have but one short step of life to make.

_Piz_. Increase their pains, the cords are yet too slack.

_Chr. Pr_. I must by force convert him on the rack.

_Ind. High Pr_. I faint away, and find I can no more:
Give leave, O king, I may reveal thy store,
And free myself from pains, I cannot bear.

_Mont_. Think'st thou I lie on beds of roses here,
Or in a wanton bath stretched at my ease?
Die, slave, and with thee die such thoughts as these.
[_High Priest turns aside, and dies_.

_Enter_ CORTEZ _attended by Spaniards, he speaks entering_.

_Cort_. On pain of death, kill none but those who fight;
I much repent me of this bloody night:
Slaughter grows murder when it goes too far,
And makes a massacre what was a war:
Sheath all your weapons, and in silence move,
'Tis sacred here to beauty, and to love.
Ha--[_Sees_ MONT.
What dismal sight is this, which takes from me
All the delight, that waits on victory!
[_Runs to take him off the rack_.
Make haste: How now, religion, do you frown?
Haste, holy avarice, and help him down.
Ah, father, father, what do I endure
[_Embracing_ MONT.
To see these wounds my pity cannot cure!

_Mont_. Am I so low that you should pity bring,
And give an infant's comfort to a king?
Ask these, if I have once unmanly groaned;
Or aught have done deserving to be moaned.

_Cort_. Did I not charge, thou shouldst not stir from hence?
[_To_ Piz.
But mar