ajesty of kings we should not blame,
When royal minds adorn the royal name;
The vulgar, greatness too much idolize,
But haughty subjects it too much despise.

_Almanz._ I only speak of him,
Whom pomp and greatness sit so loose about,
That he wants majesty to fill them out.

_Abdal._ Haste, then, and lose no time!--
The business must be enterprised this night:
We must surprise the court in its delight.

_Almanz._ For you to will, for me 'tis to obey:
But I would give a crown in open day;
And, when the Spaniards their assault begin,
At once beat those without, and these within. [_Exit_ ALMANZ.

_Enter_ ABDELMELECH.

_Abdelm._ Abdalla, hold!--There's somewhat I intend
To speak, not as your rival, but your friend.

_Abdal._ If as a friend, I am obliged to hear;
And what a rival says I cannot fear.

_Abdelm._ Think, brave Abdalla, what it is you do:
Your quiet, honour, and our friendship too,
All for a fickle beauty you forego.
Think, and turn back, before it be too late.
Behold in me the example of your fate:
I am your sea-mark; and, though wrecked and lost,
My ruins stand to warn you from the coast.

_Abdal._ Your counsels, noble Abdelmelech, move
My reason to accept them, not my love.
Ah, why did heaven leave man so weak defence,
To trust frail reason with the rule of sense!
'Tis over-poised and kicked up in the air,
While sense weighs down the scale, and keeps it there;
Or, like a captive king, 'tis borne away,
And forced to countenance its own rebels' sway.

_Abdelm._ No, no; our reason was not vainly lent;
Nor is a slave, but by its own consent:
If reason on his subject's triumph wait,
An easy king deserves no better fate.

_Abdal._ You speak too late; my empire's lost too far:
I cannot fight.

_Abdelm._ Then make a flying war;
Dislodge betimes, before you are beset.

_Abdal._ Her tears, her smiles, her every look's a net.
Her voice is like a Syren's of the land;
And bloody hearts lie panting in her hand.

_Abdelm._ This do you know, and tempt the danger still?

_Abdal._ Love, like a lethargy, has seized my will.
I'm not myself, since from her sight I went;
I lean my trunk that way, and there stand bent.
As one, who, in some frightful dream, would shun
His pressing foe, labours in vain to run;
And his own slowness, in his sleep, bemoans,
With thick short sighs, weak cries, and tender groans,
So I--

_Abdelm._ Some friend, in charity, should shake,
And rouse, and call you loud