ACT I.--SCENE I.

ALPHONSO _and_ PEDRO _meet, with Soldiers on each Side, Drums, &c._

_Alph._ Stand: give the word.

_Ped._ The queen of Arragon.

_Alph._ Pedro?--how goes the night?

_Ped._ She wears apace.

_Alph._ Then welcome day-light; we shall have warm work on't. The Moor will 'gage His utmost forces on this next assault, To win a queen and kingdom.

_Ped._ Pox on this lion-way of wooing, though. Is the queen stirring yet?

_Alph._ She has not been abed, but in her chapel All night devoutly watched, and bribed the saints With vows for her deliverance.

_Ped._ O, Alphonso! I fear they come too late. Her father's crimes Sit heavy on her, and weigh down her prayers. A crown usurped; a lawful king deposed, In bondage held, debarred the common light; His children murdered, and his friends destroyed,-- What can we less expect than what we feel, And what we fear will follow?

_Alph._ Heaven avert it!

_Ped._ Then heaven must not be heaven. Judge the event By what has passed. The usurper joyed not long His ill-got crown:--'tis true, he died in peace,-- Unriddle that, ye powers!--but left his daughter, Our present queen, engaged upon his death-bed, To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father Had helped to make him great. Hence, you well know, this fatal war arose; Because the Moor Abdalla, with whose troops The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused; And, as an infidel, his love despised.

_Alph._ Well, we are soldiers, Pedro; and, like lawyers, Plead for our pay.

_Ped._ A good cause would do well though: It gives my sword an edge. You see this Bertran Has now three times been beaten by the Moors: What hope we have, is in young Torrismond, Your brother's son.

_Alph._ He's a successful warrior, And has the soldiers' hearts: upon the skirts Of Arragon our squandered troops he rallies. Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes Expect his swift arrival.

_Ped._ It must be swift, or it will come too late.

_Alph._ No more.--Duke Bertran.

_Enter_ BERTRAN _attended._

_Bert._ Relieve the sentries that have watched all night. [_To Ped._] Now, colonel, have you disposed your men, That you stand idle here?

_Ped._ Mine are drawn off To take a short repose.

_Bert._ Short let it be: For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more, There has been heard a distant humming noise, Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives. What courage in our soldiers? Speak! What hope?

_Ped._ As much as when physicians shake their heads, And bid their dying patient think of heaven. Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain; The rest, an heartless number, spent with watching, And harassed out with duty.

_Bert._ Good-night all, then.

_Ped._ Nay, for my part, 'tis but a single life I have to lose. I'll plant my colours down In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot; Say a short soldier's prayer, to spare the trouble Of my new friends above; and then expect The next fair bullet.

_Alph._ Never was known a night of such distraction; Noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds. That run, and know not whither; torches gliding, Like meteors, by each other in the streets.

_Ped._ I met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar,-- With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin Might rest upon it; a true son of the church; Fresh-coloured, well thriven on his trade,-- Come puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir, And fumbling o'er his beads in such an agony, He told them false, for fear. About his neck There hung a wench, the label of his function, Whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly. It seems the holy stallion durst not score Another sin, before he left the world.

_Enter a Captain._

_Capt._ To arms, my lord, to arms! From the Moors' camp the noise grows louder still: Rattling of armour, trumpets, drums, and ataballes; And sometimes peals of shouts that rend the heavens, Like victory: then groans again, and howlings, Like those of vanquished men; but every echo Goes fainter off, and dies in distant sounds.

_Bert._ Some false attack: expect on t'other side. One to the gunners on St Jago's tower; bid them, for shame, Level their cannon lower: On my soul They are all corrupted with the gold of Barbary, To carry over, and not hurt the Moor.

_Enter a second Captain._

_2 Capt._ My lord, here's fresh intelligence arrived. Our army, led by valiant Torrismond, Is now in hot engagement with the Moors; 'Tis said, within their trenches.

_Bert._ I think all fortune is reserved for him!-- He might have sent us word though; And then we could have favoured his attempt With sallies from the town.

_Alph._ It could not be: We were so close blocked up, that none could peep Upon the walls and live. But yet 'tis time.

_Bert._ No, 'tis too late; I will not hazard it: On pain of death, let no man dare to sally.

_Ped._ Oh envy, envy, how it works within him! [_Aside._ How now? what means this show?

_Alph._ 'Tis a procession. The queen is going to the great cathedral, To pray for our success against the Moors.

_Ped._ Very good: she usurps the throne, keeps the old king in prison, and, at the same time, is praying for a blessing. Oh religion and roguery, how they go together! [_A Procession of Priests and Choristers in White, with Tapers, followed by the Queen and Ladies, goes over the Stage: the Choristers singing,_

_Look down, ye blessed above, look down, Behold our weeping matrons' tears, Behold our tender virgins' fears, And with success our armies crown.

Look down, ye blessed above, look down: Oh! save us, save as, and our state restore; For pity, pity, pity, we implore: For pity, pity, pity, we implore._ [_The Procession goes off; and shout within. Then_

_Enter_ LORENZO, _who kneels to_ ALPHONSO.

_Bert._ [_To Alph._] A joyful cry; and see your son Lorenzo. Good news, kind heaven!

_Alph._ [_To Lor._] O welcome, welcome! is the general safe? How near our army? when shall we be succoured? Or, are we succoured? are the Moors removed? Answer these questions first, and then a thousand more; Answer them all together.

_Lor._ Yes, when I have a thousand tongues, I will. The general's well; his army too is safe, As victory can make them. The Moors' king Is safe enough, I warrant him, for one. At dawn of day our general cleft his pate, Spite of his woollen night-cap: a slight wound; Perhaps he may recover.

_Alph._ Thou reviv'st me.

_Ped._ By my computation now, the victory was gained before the procession was made for it; and yet it will go hard but the priests will make a miracle of it.

_Lor._ Yes, faith; we came like bold intruding guests, And took them unprepared to give us welcome. Their scouts we killed, then found their body sleeping; And as they lay confused, we stumbled o'er them, And took what joint came next, arms, heads, or legs, Somewhat indecently. But when men want light, They make but bungling work.

_Bert._ I'll to the queen, And bear the news.

_Ped._ That's young Lorenzo's duty.

_Bert._ I'll spare his trouble.-- This Torrismond begins to grow too fast; He must be mine, or ruined. [_Aside, and Exit._

_Lor._ Pedro a word:--[_whisper._]

_Alph._ How swift he shot away! I find it stung him, In spite of his dissembling. [_To Lorenzo._] How many of the enemy are slain?

_Lor._ Troth, sir, we were in haste, and could not stay To score the men we killed; but there they lie: Best send our women out to take the tale; There's circumcision in abundance for them. [_Turns to_ PEDRO _again._

_Alph._ How far did you pursue them?

_Lor._ Some few miles.-- [_To Pedro_] Good store of harlots, say you, and dog-cheap? Pedro, they must be had, and speedily; I've kept a tedious fast. [_Whisper again._

_Alph._ When will he make his entry? he deserves Such triumphs as were given by ancient Rome: Ha, boy, what say'st thou?

_Lor._ As you say, sir, that Rome was very ancient. [_To Pedro._] I leave the choice to you; fair, black, tall, low, Let her but have a nose; and you may tell her, I am rich in jewels, rings, and bobbing pearls, Plucked from Moors' ears.

_Alph._ Lorenzo.

_Lor._ Somewhat busy About affairs relating to the public.-- A seasonable girl, just in the nick now-- [_To Pedro._ [_Trumpets within._

_Ped._ I hear the general's trumpet. Stand and mark How he will be received; I fear, but coldly. There hung a cloud, methought, on Bertran's brow.

_Lor._ Then look to see a storm on Torrismond's; Looks fright not men. The general has seen Moors With as bad faces; no dispraise to Bertran's.

_Ped._ 'Twas rumoured in the camp, he loves the queen.

_Lor._ He drinks her health devoutly.

_Alph._ That may breed bad blood betwixt him and Bertran.

_Ped._ Yes, in private. But Bertran has been taught the arts of court, To gild a face with smiles, and leer a man to ruin, O here they come.--

_Enter_ TORRISMOND _and Officers on one Side,_ BERTRAN _attended on the other; they embrace,_ BERTRAN _bowing low._

Just as I prophesied.--

_Lor._ Death and hell, he laughs at him!--in his face too.

_Ped._ O you mistake him; 'twas an humble grin, The fawning joy of courtiers and of dogs.

_Lor._ Here are nothing but lies to be expected: I'll even go lose myself in some blind alley, and try if any courteous damsel will think me worth the finding. [_Aside, and Exit._

_Alph._ Now he begins to open.

_Bert._ Your country rescued, and your queen relieved,-- A glorious conquest, noble Torrismond! The people rend the skies with loud applause, And heaven can hear no other name but yours. The thronging crowds press on you as you pass, And with their eager joy make triumph slow.

_Torr._ My lord, I have no taste Of popular applause; the noisy praise Of giddy crowds, as changeable as winds; Still vehement, and still without a cause; Servant to chance, and blowing in the tide Of swoln success; but veering with its ebb, It leaves the channel dry.

_Bert._ So young a stoick!

_Torr._ You wrong me, if you think I'll sell one drop Within these veins for pageants; but, let honour Call for my blood, and sluice it into streams: Turn fortune loose again to my pursuit, And let me hunt her through embattled foes, In dusty plains, amidst the cannons' roar, There will I be the first.

_Bert._ I'll try him farther.-- [_Aside._ Suppose the assembled states of Arragon Decree a statue to you, thus inscribed: "To Torrismond, who freed his native land."

_Alph._ [_To Ped._] Mark how he sounds and fathoms him, To find the shallows of his soul!

_Bert._ The just applause Of god-like senates, is the stamp of virtue, Which makes it pass unquestioned through the world. These honours you deserve; nor shall my suffrage Be last to fix them on you. If refused, You brand us all with black ingratitude: For times to come shall say,--Our Spain, like Rome, Neglects her champions after noble acts, And lets their laurels wither on their heads.

_Torr._ A statue, for a battle blindly fought, Where darkness and surprise made conquest cheap! Where virtue borrowed but the arms of chance, And struck a random blow!--'Twas fortune's work, And fortune take the praise.

_Bert._ Yet happiness Is the first fame. Virtue without success Is a fair picture shewn by an ill light; But lucky men are favourites of heaven: And whom should kings esteem above heaven's darlings? The praises of a young and beauteous queen Shall crown your glorious acts.

_Ped._ [_To Alph._] There sprung the mine.

_Torr._ The queen! that were a happiness too great! Named you the queen, my lord?

_Bert._ Yes: you have seen her, and you must confess, A praise, a smile, a look from her is worth The shouts of thousand amphitheatres. She, she shall praise you, for I can oblige her: To-morrow will deliver all her charms Into my arms, and make her mine for ever.-- Why stand you mute?

_Torr._ Alas! I cannot speak.

_Bert._ Not speak, my lord! How were your thoughts employed?

_Torr._ Nor can I think, or I am lost in thought.

_Bert._ Thought of the queen, perhaps?

_Torr._ Why, if it were, Heaven may be thought on, though too high to climb.

_Bert._ O, now I find where your ambition drives! You ought not to think of her.

_Torr._ So I say too, I ought not; madmen ought not to be mad; But who can help his frenzy?

_Bert._ Fond young man! The wings of your ambition must be clipt: Your shame-faced virtue shunned the people's praise, And senate's honours: But 'tis well we know What price you hold yourself at. You have fought With some success, and that has sealed your pardon.

_Torr._ Pardon from thee!--O, give me patience, heaven!-- Thrice vanquished Bertran, if thou dar'st, look out Upon yon slaughtered host, that field of blood; There seal my pardon, where thy fame was lost.

_Ped._ He's ruined, past redemption!

_Alph._ [_To_ TORR.] Learn respect To the first prince of the blood.

_Bert._ O, let him rave! I'll not contend with madmen.

_Torr._ I have done: I know, 'twas madness to declare this truth: And yet, 'twere baseness to deny my love. 'Tis true, my hopes are vanishing as clouds; Lighter than children's bubbles blown by winds: My merit's but the rash result of chance; My birth unequal; all the stars against me: Power, promise, choice, the living and the dead; Mankind my foes; and only love to friend: But such a love, kept at such awful distance, As, what it loudly dares to tell a rival, Shall fear to whisper there. Queens may be loved, And so may gods; else why are altars raised? Why shines the sun, but that he may be viewed? But, oh! when he's too bright, if then we gaze, 'Tis but to weep, and close our eyes in darkness. [_Exit._

_Bert._ 'Tis well; the goddess shall be told, she shall, Of her new worshipper. [_Exit._

_Ped._ So, here's fine work! He has supplied his only foe with arms For his destruction. Old Penelope's tale Inverted; he has unravelled all by day, That he has done by night. What, planet struck!

_Alph._ I wish I were; to be past sense of this!

_Ped._ Would I had but a lease of life so long, As 'till my flesh and blood rebelled this way, Against our sovereign lady;--mad for a queen? With a globe in one hand, and a sceptre in t'other? A very pretty moppet!

_Alph._ Then to declare his madness to his rival! His father absent on an embassy; Himself a stranger almost; wholly friendless! A torrent, rolling down a precipice, Is easier to be stopt, than is his ruin.

_Ped._ 'Tis fruitless to complain; haste to the court; Improve your interest there for pardon from the queen.

_Alph._ Weak remedies; But all must be attempted. [_Exit._