tial law shall punish thy offence.
And you, [_To the Christian Priest_.
Who saucily teach monarchs to obey,
And the wide world in narrow cloisters sway;
Set up by kings as humble aids of power,
You that which bred you, viper-like, devour,
You enemies of crowns--

_Chr. Pr_. Come, let's away,
We but provoke his fury by our stay.

_Cort_. If this go free, farewell that discipline,
Which did in Spanish camps severely shine:
Accursed gold, 'tis thou hast caused these crimes;
Thou turn'st our steel against thy parent climes!
And into Spain wilt fatally be brought,
Since with the price of blood thou here art bought.

[_Exeunt Priest and_ PIZARRO.
[CORTEZ _kneels by_ MONTEZUMA, _and weeps_.

_Cort_. Can you forget those crimes they did commit?

_Mont_. I'll do what for my dignity is fit:
Rise, sir, I'm satisfied the fault was theirs:
Trust me, you make me weep to see your tears:
Must I chear you?

_Cort_. Ah heavens!

_Mont_. You're much to blame;
Your grief is cruel, for it shows my shame,
Does my lost crown to my remembrance bring:
But weep not you, and I'll be still a king.
You have forgot, that I your death designed,
To satisfy the proud Almeria's mind:
You, who preserved my life, I doomed to die.

_Cort_. Your love did that, and not your cruelty.

_Enter a Spaniard_.

_Span_. Prince Guyomar the combat still maintains,
Our men retreat, and he their ground regains:
But once encouraged by our general's sight,
We boldly should renew the doubtful fight.

_Cort_. Remove not hence, you shall not long attend;
[_To_ MONTEZUMA.
I'll aid my soldiers, yet preserve my friend.

_Mont_. Excellent man! [_Exeunt_ CORTEZ, &c.
But I, by living, poorly take the way
To injure goodness, which I cannot pay.

_Enter_ ALMERIA.

_Alm_. Ruin and death run armed through every street;
And yet that fate, I seek, I cannot meet:
What guards misfortunes are and misery!
Death, that strikes all, yet seems afraid of me.

_Mont_. Almeria here! Oh turn away your face!
Must you be witness too of my disgrace?

_Alm_. I am not that Almeria whom you knew,
But want that pity I denied to you:
Your conqueror, alas, has vanquished me;
But he refuses his own victory:
While all are captives in your conquered state,
I find a wretched freedom in his hate.

_Mont_. Couldst thou thy love on one who scorned thee lose?
He saw not with my eyes, who could refuse:
Him, who could prove so much unkind to thee,
I ne'er will suffer to be kind