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SCENE III.
A Field of Battle.—(Drums and Trumpets.)Enter the Moorish Chief and Troops.
CHIEF.
Welcome, my valiant Moors, to Spain, where dwells
The Christian, but to glut your enmity
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And ruin, through a thousand breaches, find
The entrails of their city. Think upon
Your fathers, by the cruel Spaniard slain,
Your brothers and your friends! Forget not, then,
Your plunder'd towns, your prostrate villages,
Your wasted acres; seasons wither'd by
The breath of war, more than the pestilence.
They persecute your race, profane your God—
And there they are before you. Forward—rush!
'Tis Alla calls,—Alla and victory!
[They charge—Trumpets, Drums, &c.
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