they praise him most, be you the loudest.
Your brother is luxurious, close, and cruel;
Generous by fits, but permanent in mischief.
The shadow of a discontent would ruin us;
We must be safe, before we can be great.
These things observed, leave me to shape the rest.

_M. Zey._ You have the key; he opens inward to you.

_Bend._ So often tried, and ever found so true,
Has given me trust; and trust has given me means
Once to be false for all. I trust not him;
For, now his ends are served, and he grown absolute,
How am I sure to stand, who served those ends?
I know your nature open, mild, and grateful:
In such a prince the people may be blest,
And I be safe.

_M. Zey._ My father! [_Embracing him._

_Bend._ My future king, auspicious Muley-Zeydan!
Shall I adore you?--No, the place is public:
I worship you within; the outward act
Shall be reserved till nations follow me,
And heaven shall envy you the kneeling world.--
You know the alcade of Alcazar, Dorax?

_M. Zey._ The gallant renegade you mean?

_Bend._ The same.
That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest,
Contains the shining treasure, of a soul
Resolved and brave: He has the soldiers' hearts,
And time shall make him ours.

_M. Zey._ He's just upon us.

_Bend._ I know him from afar,
By the long stride, and by the sullen port.--
Retire, my lord.
Wait on your brother's triumph; yours is next:
His growth is but a wild and fruitless plant;
I'll cut his barren branches to the stock,
And graft you on to bear.

_M. Zey._ My oracle! [_Exit_ M. ZEY.

_Bend._ Yes, to delude your hopes.--Poor credulous fool!
To think that I would give away the fruit
Of so much toil, such guilt, and such damnation!
If I am damned, it shall be for myself.
This easy fool must be my stale, set up
To catch the people's eyes: He's tame and merciful;
Him I can manage, till I make him odious
By some unpopular act; and then dethrone him.

_Enter_ DORAX.

Now, Dorax.

_Dor._ Well, Benducar.

_Bend._ Bare Benducar!

_Dor._ Thou would'st have titles; take them then,--chief minister,
First hangman of the state.

_Bend._ Some call me, favourite.

_Dor._ What's that?--his minion?--
Thou art too old to be a catamite!--
Now pr'ythee tell me, and abate thy pride,
Is not Benducar, bare, a better name
In a friend's mouth, than all those gaudy titles,
Which I disdain to give the man I love?

_Bend._ But always out of