University of Virginia Library

SCENE VIII.

Solyman, Osman.
Solyman.
Art thou privy
To this conspiracy?

Osman.
My Lord?

Solyman.
I stood
Even on the verge, th' extremest verge of fate:
And one step more—I doubted her I love,
Her who has sav'd me—Osman, he shall die!
Call Rustan; bid the mutes be ready—Stay.
This cool dissembler, this smooth hypocrite,
What can he now alledge?—Bring him before me.

Osman.
Whom, gracious Sir?

Solyman.
Him.—Dost thou linger, slave?
This rage disturbs my reason.—Mustapha.
O wretched Solyman!