SCENE III.
The Camp.
Two Officers of the Janizaries.
First OFFICER.
Once more we've Hope to see the Porte again;
The Vizier's on the Spur to sign the Treaty—
Osman, neglecting too his Thirst for Arms,
Grows hourly more impatient to decamp—
All Articles are settled—and e'en now
The Deputies attend at the Divan,
To ratify in Form a solid Peace—
Second OFFICER.
I'th'North perhaps—but e're we reach the Porte,
The Head of Osman will have form'd new Projects,
To drain his Empire, and consume his Forces.
First OFFICER.
I fear some other Schemes engage his Mind—
You've heard how he digested our Defeat—
How he exclaimed against our Cowardice,
(So free to term it thus.)—Can he imagine
Our Lives of so mean Value, to be lavish'd
In careless Pastime at our Leader's Nod,
Without an Argument to push us on—
What did the Poles to us, or our Allies,
That should demand th'Effusion of this Blood?—
Mere hot-brain'd Frenzy!—Have we not lost thousands?—
Wasted our Strength in traversing steep Mountains!
In passing Rivers at the utmost Peril!
And all to gratify a Child's Ambition—
Second OFFICER.
The Sultan's present Treatment of our Order,
Treasures Disgust in ev'ry wary Breast.
When I approach'd him for the Nightly Word,
His low'ring Brow, collected to Resentment,
Flashing Contempt and Indignation at me,
Bespoke the inward Rancor of his Soul—
—I dread the Consequence at our Return—
But see, th'Embassadors—The Treaty's sign'd—
And they're in March t'his Highness's Pavilion.
