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Dor. I have cause:
Though all mankind is cause enough for satire.
Bend. Why, then, thou hast revenged thee on

They say, in fight, thou hadst a thirsty sword,
And well 'twas glutted there.

Dor. I spitted frogs; I crushed a heap of em-
mets; A hundred of them to a single soul,
And that but scanty weight too. The great devil
Scarce thanked me for my pains; he swallows vulgar
Like whipped cream,—feels them not in going down.
Bend, brave renegade!—Could'st thou not meet

Thy master had been worthy of thy sword.

Dor. My master!—By what title?
Because I happened to be born where he
Happened to be king?—And yet I served him;
Nay, I was fool enough to love him too.—
You know my story, how I was rewarded
For fifteen hard campaigns, still hooped in iron,
And why I turned Mahometan. I'm grateful;
But whosoever dares to injure me,
Let that man know, I dare to be revenged.

Bend. Still you run off from bias:—Say, what moves Your present spleen?

Dor. You marked not what I told you. I killed not one that was his maker's image; I met with none but vulgar two-legged brutes: Sebastian was my aim; he was a man: Nay,—though he hated me, and I hate him, Yet I must do him right,—he was a man, Above man's height, even towering to divinity: Brave, pious, generous, great, and liberal; Just as the scales of heaven, that weigh the seasons. He loved his people; him they idolized; And thence proceeds my mortal hatred to him;

That, thus unblameable to all besides,
He erred to me alone;
His goodness was diffused to human kind,
And all his cruelty confined to me.

Bend. You could not meet him then?

Dor. No, though I sought Where ranks fell thickest.—Twas indeed the place To seek Sebastian.—Through a track of death I followed him, by groans of dying foes; But still I came too late; for he was flown, Like lightning, swift before me to new slaughters. I mowed across, and made irregular harvest, Defaced the pomp of battle, but in vain; For he was still supplying death elsewhere. This mads me, that perhaps ignoble hands Have overlaid him,—for they could not conquer: Murdered by multitudes, whom I alone Had right to slay. I too would have been slain; That, catching hold upon his flitting ghost, I might have robbed nim of his opening heaven, And dragged him down with me, spite of predestination.

Bend. Tis of as much import as Africk's worth, To know what came of him, and of Almeyda, The sister of the vanquished Mahomet, Whose fatal beauty to her brother drew The land's third part, as Lucifer did heaven's.

Dor. I hope she died in her own female calling, Choked up with man, and gorged with circumcision.

As for Sebastian, we must search the field;
And, where we see a mountain of the slain,
Send one to climb, and, looking down below,
There he shall find him at his manly length,
With his face up to heaven, in the red monument,
Which his true sword has digged.

Bend. Yet we may possibly hear farther news;For, while our Africans pursued the chace,
The captain of the rabble issued out,
With a black shirtless train, to spoil the dead,
And seize the living.

Dor. Each of them an host,
A million strong of vermin every villain:
No part of government, but lords of anarchy,
Chaos of power, and privileged destruction.

Bend. Yet I must tell you, friend, the great must
use them Sometimes, as necessary tools of tumult. Dor. I would use them
Like dogs in times of plague; outlaws of nature,
Fit to be shot and brained, without a process,
To stop infection; that's their proper death.

Bend. No more;—
Behold the emperor coming to survey
The slaves, in order to perform his vow.

Enter Muley-moluch the Emperor, with Attendants; the Mufti, and Muley-zeydan.

M. Mol. Our armours now may rust; our idle scym iters

Hang by our sides for ornament, not use:Children shall beat our atabals and drums, And all the noisy trades of war no more Shall wake the peaceful morn; the XerifFs blood

No longer in divided channels runs, The younger house took end in Mahomet:Nor shall Sebastian's formidable name Be longer used to lull the crying babe.

Muf. For this victorious day, our mighty prophet Expects your gratitude, the sacrifice Of Christian slaves, devoted, if you won.

M. Mol. The purple present shall be richly paid; That vow performed, fasting shall be abolished; None e'er served heaven well with a starved face:

Preach abstinence no more; I tell thee, Mufti,
Good feasting is devout; and thou, our head,
Hast a religious, ruddy countenance.
We will have learned luxury; our lean faith
Gives scandal to the christians; they feed high:
Then look for shoals of converts, when thou hast
Reformed us into feasting.

Muf. Fasting is but the letter of the law,
Yet it shews well to preach it to the vulgar;
Wine is against our law; that's literal too,
But not denied to kings and to their guides;
Wine is a holy liquor for the great.

Dor. [Aside.] This Mufti, in my conscience, is some English renegado, he talks so savourily of toping.

M. Mol. Bring forth the unhappy relicks of the war.

Enter Mustapha, Captain of the Rabble, with his followers of the Black Guard, &c. and other Moors; With them a Company of Portuguese Slaves, without any of the chief Persons.

M. Mol. These are not fit to pay an emperor's vow; Our bulls and rams had been more noble victims: These are but garbage, not a sacrifice.

Muf. The prophet must not pick and chuse his offerings;

Now he has given the day, 'tis past recalling,
And he must be content with such as these.

M. Mol. But are these all? Speak you, that are their masters.

Must. All, upon my honour; if you will take them as their fathers got them, so; if not, you must stay till they get a better generation. These christians are mere bunglers; they procreate nothing but out of their own wives, and these have all the looks of eldest sons.

M. Mol. Pain of your lives, let none conceal a slave.

Must. Let every man look to his own conscience; I am sure mine shall never hang me.

Bend. Thou speak'st as if thou wert privy to concealments; then thou art an accomplice.

Must. Nay, if accomplices must suffer, it may go hard with me: but here's the devil on't, there's a great man, and a holy man too, concerned with me; now, if I confess, he'll be sure to escape between his greatness and his holiness, and I shall be murdered, because of my poverty and rascality. Muf. [IVinking at him. ] Then, if thy silence save the great and holy, Tis sure thou shalt go straight to paradise.

Must. 'Tis a fine place, they say; but, doctor, I am not worthy on't. I am contented with this homely world; 'tis good enough for such a poor, rascally Mussulman, as I am; besides, I have learnt so much good manners, doctor, as to let my betters be served before me. M. Mol. Thou talk'st as if the Mufti were concerned.

Must. Your majesty may lay your soul on't. But, for my part, though I am a plain fellow, yet I scorn to be tricked into paradise; I would he should know it. The truth on't is, an't like you, his reverence bought of me the flower of all the market; these—these are but dogs-meat to them; and a round price he paid me, too, I'll say that for him; but not enough for me to venture my neck for. If I get paradise when my time comes, I can't help myself; but I'll venture nothing before-hand, upon a blind bargain.

M. Mol. Where are those slaves? produce them.
Muf. They are not what he says.
M. Mol. No more excuses.

[One goes out tofetch them.

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