Zanga, I understand thee well. She dies;
Though my arm tremble at the stroke, she dies.

_Zan._ That's truly great. What think you 'twas set up
The Greek and Roman name in such a lustre,
But doing right in stern despite to nature;
Shutting their ears to all her little cries,
When great, august, and godlike justice call'd?
At Aulis, one pour'd out a daughter's life,
And gain'd more glory than by all his wars;
Another, slew a sister in just rage;
A third, the theme of all succeeding times,
Gave to the cruel axe a darling son:
Nay more, for justice some devote themselves,
As he at Carthage, an immortal name!
Yet there is one step left above them all,
Above their history, above their fable:
A wife, bride, mistress, unenjoy'd--do that,
And tread upon the Greek and Roman glory.

_Alon._ 'Tis done!--Again new transports fire my brain:
I had forgot it, 'tis my bridal night.
Friend, give me joy, we must be gay together;
See that the festival be duly honour'd.

And when with garlands the full bowl is crown'd,
And music gives her elevating sound,
And golden carpets spread the sacred floor,
And a new day the blazing tapers pour,
Thou, Zanga, then my solemn friends invite,
From the dark realms of everlasting night;
Call Vengeance, call the furies, call Despair,
And Death, our chief-invited guest, be there;
He, with pale hand, shall lead the bride, and spread
Eternal curtains round our nuptial bed. [_exeunt._

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.

_Enter Alonzo, meeting Zanga._

_Alon._ Is Carlos murder'd?

_Zan._ I obey'd your order.
Six ruffians overtook him on the road;
He fought as he was wont, and four he slew.
Then sunk beneath an hundred wounds to death.
His last breath blest Alonzo, and desir'd
His bones might rest near yours.

_Alon._ Oh, Zanga! Zanga!
But I'll not think: for I must act, and thinking
Would ruin me for action.
Where's Leonora then? Quick, answer me:
I'm deep in horrors, I'll be deeper still.
I find thy artifice did take effect,
And she forgives my late deportment to her.

_Zan._ I told her, from your childhood you was wont,
On any great surprise, but chiefly then
When cause of sorrow bore it company,
To have your passion shake the seat of reason;
A momentary ill, which soon blew o'er:
Then did I tell her of don Carlos' death
(Wisely suppressing by what means he fell),
And laid the blame on that. At first she doubted;
But such the honest artifice I us'd,
And