University of Virginia Library

Enter Mauro and Solyman, two Saracens.
Mauro.
Thro' what a Tract of vast unmeasur'd Space,
These Christian Chiefs have led their wand'ring Host;
Their Sails have courted every Wind that blows,
And wanton'd in variety of Seas.
Calpe beheld them pass his rocky Height,
Frown'd on their burden'd Ships with length of Shade,
While they, undaunted, cut their watry Way,
And, smiling, cast back Fear upon his Brow.
In vain the Mountains rise, the Rivers swell,
They mock the Whirlpool, fighting, Ford the Stream,
And, clogg'd in cumbrous Armour, climb the steep.

Solyman.
Such Praise, unblushing, we may give our Foes,
A Soldier's Honour brightens by the Blaze
Of neighbouring Virtue, and reflects new Light.

Mauro.
But yet, methinks, 'tis wond'rous strange Success
Should wait as Servant to their moving Camp,
And hail them still victorious—See they bring
Monarchs enchained, rude Ravishments of War,
Bidding Captivity new Conquests make,
And stretch the Line of Bondage by the Hands
Of Princely Vassals, and of Royal Slaves.

Solyman.
And what the Recompence of all their Toil,
Slowly to gain what never can be kept,
For distant Conquests are like needy Friends
In Climes remote, who still dissemble Wants
'Till Wealth amass'd, Temptation glitt'ring nigh,
The Gift of Power too strong for Honour proves,
And makes the fair Possession all its own.
O! were their Arms and Policy alike!

Mauro.
Their Arms! I scorn their Arms—

Solyman.
Have you forgot
By whose high Hand fair Ptolemais sunk,
Whose single Valour forced the guarded Trench,
And let in swift Destruction at his Heels.
Who, like a Whirlwind rais'd by Magic-Art,
Shook all her Tow'rs and Battlements to Earth;
And left our frighted Deities to mourn
Their prostrate Temples, and their widow'd Shrines.
Was any City of the peopled Earth,
Tho' built in Fable, and by hireling Gods,
So proudly strong, and yet so fairly won?

Mauro.
Why wouldst thou open that sad Scene of Slaughter,
And set victorious Richard in my View?
More dreadful than their bold confed'rate Kings,
Whene'er the Austrian Eagle droops his Wings;
Or the French Lillies sicken at the War,
He plants his English Lions in the Breach;
Snatches the new-gain'd Conquest from our Hand,
And robs both Friend and Enemies of Fame.
I saw him, when, with manly Force, he sway'd,
Dire Instrument, the two-edg'd Battle-Axe,
Whose Weight requir'd a Giant's Arm to poise,
But he shook easy as a bending Reed,
Death follow'd close, and mark'd his Way with Blood.
What Thousands then had fell, had not his Eye
Cast on an Infant Train, bad Slaughter cease,
Cease—Cease—he cry'd—These may be Christians yet—

Solyman.
That Grace they owe to Berengaria's Lips,
(For so the Brother of the Scottish King,
Young David, Envoy once of happy Truce)
Has often told to our admiring Court.
He spoke the Dove-like Meekness of her Eye,
The sweet Perswasion of her soften'd Look,
Whene'er her Hero march'd, she, sighing, cry'd,
O spare the Mother for the Infant's sake!
O spare the Infant for the Mother's sake!

Mauro.
What End of Warring with so brave a Foe?

Solyman.
I know not yet, but hourly we expect,
Achmet's Return, the favourite Renegade,
Who went a Spy upon the Christian Camp.

Mauro.
I hate that saucy Convert to our Faith!
'Tis true, he's brave, but hangs his Merit high,
To catch the View of popular Regard;
To us his Equals insolently vain,
But to the Sultan fawning as a Slave,
As damn'd a Whisperer in his Prince's Ear.
As Eastern Eunuchs, or a Christian Priest.
And he, this Sycophant, this talking Warriour,
Must hate Armida too, the warlike Maid,
Whose valiant Deeds as far o'ermates his Worth,
As Richard's mine—

Solyman.
Mauro, compose thy Wrath,
It ill becomes us when the Iron Hand
Of War is waving o'er our City Gates,
Threatning to fall and crush us to the Earth,
To spend that Rage, that might prevent our Fate
In civil Broils and Factions with our Friends.

Enter a Captain.
Captain.
My Lords, the Princes, Counsellors, and Chiefs
Of all our Host are now in Counsel met,
Great Saladine himself is seated on the Throne,
And here's Prince Achmet from the Christian Camp.

[Exit.
Solyman.
We come.

Mauro.
He said, Prince Achmet, did he not?
Now, by our Prophet, where do Titles grow?
Or does bright Honour, like Dame Fortune reign,
And blindfold fling her Largesses on Earth,
While ev'ry Chance-Receiver wears as high
The flutt'ring Gift, as if his own by Right,
And from a Villain grows into a Prince;
A Prince, a Spy, an Office for a Dog,
That lurks and beats about the Field to spring his Game.

[Exeunt.