SCENE IV.
Enter Odmar and Guyomar, meeting each other in the battle.
Odm. Where hast thou been, since first the fight began,
Thou less than woman in the shape of man?
Guy. Where I have done what may thy envy move,
Things worthy of my birth, and of my love.
Odm. Two bold Traxallans with one dart I slew,
And left it sticking ere my sword I drew.
Guy. I sought not honour on so base a train,
Such cowards by our women may be slain;
I felled along a man of bearded face,
His limbs all covered with a shining case:
So wondrous hard, and so secure of wound,
It made my sword though edged with flint, rebound.
Odm. I killed a double man; the one half lay
Upon the ground, the other ran away.
Enter Montezuma, out of breath, with him Alibech, and an Indian.
Mont. All's lost!—
Our foes with lightning and with thunder fight;
My men in vain shun death by shameful flight:
For deaths invisible come winged with fire,
They hear a dreadful noise, and straight expire.
Take, gods! that soul, ye did in spite create,
And made it great, to be unfortunate:
Ill fate for me unjustly you provide,
Great souls are sparks of your own heavenly pride:
That lust of power we from your god-heads have,
You 're bound to please those appetites you gave.
Enter Vasquez and Pizarro, with Spaniards.
Vasq. Pizarro, I have hunted hard to-day,
Into our toils, the noblest of the prey;
Seize on the king, and him your prisoner make,
While I, in kind revenge, my taker take.
Guy. Their danger is alike;—whom shall I free?
Odm. I'll follow love!
Guy. I'll follow piety!
Guy. Fly, sir! while I give back that life you gave;
Mine is well lost, if I your life can save.
Guy. 'Tis more than man can do to scape them all;
Stay, let me see where noblest I may fall.
Vasq. Conduct him off,
And give command, he strictly guarded be.
Guy. In vain are guards, death sets the valiant free.
Vasq. A glorious day! and bravely was it fought:
Great fame our general in great dangers sought;
From his strong arm I saw his rival run,
And, in a crowd, the unequal combat shun.
Enter Cortez leading Cydaria, who seems crying and begging of him.
Cort. Man's force is fruitless, and your gods would fail
To save the city, but your tears prevail;
I'll of my fortune no advantage make,
Those terms, they had once given, they still may take.
Cyd. Heaven has of right all victory designed,
Where boundless power dwells in a will confined;
Your Spanish honour does the world excel.
Cort. Our greatest honour is in loving well.
Cyd. Strange ways you practise there, to win a heart;
Here love is nature, but with you 'tis art
Cort. Love is with us as natural as here,
But fettered up with customs more severe.
In tedious courtship we declare our pain,
And, ere we kindness find, first meet disdain.
Cyd. If women love, they needless pains endure;
Their pride and folly but delay their cure.
Cort. What you miscall their folly, is their care;
They know how fickle common lovers are:
Their oaths and vows are cautiously believed,
For few there are but have been once deceived.
Cyd. But if they are not trusted when they vow,
What other marks of passion can they show?
Cort. With feasts, and music, all that brings delight,
Men treat their ears, their palates, and their sight
Cyd. Your gallants, sure, have little eloquence,
Failing to move the soul, they court the sense:
With pomp, and trains, and in a crowd they woo,
When true felicity is but in two;
But can such toys your women's passions move?
This is but noise and tumult, 'tis not love.
Cort. I have no reason, madam, to excuse
Those ways of gallantry, I did not use;
My love was true, and on a nobler score.
Cyd. Your love, alas! then have you loved before?
Cort. 'Tis true I loved, but she is dead, she's dead;
And I should think with her all beauty fled,
Did not her fair resemblance live in you,
And, by that image, my first flames renew.
Cyd. Ah! happy beauty, whosoe'er thou art!
Though dead, thou keep'st possession of his heart;
Thou mak'st me jealous to the last degree,
And art my rival in his memory:
Within his memory! ah, more than so,
Thou liv'st and triumph'st o'er Cydaria too.
Cort. What strange disquiet has uncalmed your breast,
Inhuman fair, to rob the dead of rest!—
Poor heart! she slumbers in her silent tomb;
Let her possess in peace that narrow room.
Cyd. Poor heart!—he pities and bewails her death!—
Some god, much hated soul, restore thy breath,
That I may kill thee; but, some ease 'twill be,
I'll kill myself for but resembling thee.
Cort. I dread your anger, your disquiet fear,
But blows, from hands so soft, who would not bear?
So kind a passion why should I remove?
Since jealousy but shows how well we love.
Yet jealousy so strange I never knew;
Can she, who loves me not, disquiet you?
For in the grave no passions fill the breast,
'Tis all we gain by death, to be at rest
Cyd. That she no longer loves, brings no relief;
Your love to her still lives, and that's my grief.
Cort. The object of desire once ta'en away,
'Tis then not love, but pity, that we pay.
Cyd. 'Tis such a pity I should never have,
When I must lie forgotten in the grave;
I meant to have obliged you, when I died,
That, after me, you should love none beside.—
But you are false already.
Cort. If untrue,
By heaven! my falsehood is to her, not you.
Cyd. Observe, sweet heaven, how falsely he does swear!—
You said, you loved me for resembling her.
Cort. That love was in me by resemblance bred,
But shows you cheered my sorrows for the dead.
Cyd. You still repeat the greatness of your grief!
Cort. If that was great, how great was the relief.
Cyd. The first love still the strongest we account.
Cort. That seems more strong which could the first surmount:
But if you still continue thus unkind,
Whom I love best, you, by my death, shall find.
Cyd. If you should die, my death shall yours pursue;
But yet I am not satisfied you're true.
Cort. Hear me, ye gods! and punish him you hear,
If aught within the world I hold so dear.
Cyd. You would deceive the gods and me; she's dead,
And is not in the world, whose love I dread.—
Name not the world; say, nothing is so dear.
Cort. Then nothing is,—let that secure your fear.
Cyd. Tis time must wear it off, but I must go.
Can you your constancy in absence show?
Cort. Misdoubt my constancy, and do not try,
But stay, and keep me ever in your eye.
Cyd. If as a prisoner I were here, you might
Have then insisted on a conqueror's right,
And stayed me here; but now my love would be
The effect of force, and I would give it free.
Cort. To doubt your virtue, or your love, were sin!
Call for the captive prince, and bring him in.
Enter Guyomar, bound and sad.
You look, sir, as your fate you could not bear:
Are Spanish fetters, then, so hard to wear?
Fortune's unjust, she ruins oft the brave,
And him, who should be victor, makes the slave.
Guy. Son of the sun! my fetters cannot be
But glorious for me, since put on by thee:
The ills of love, not those of fate, I fear;
These can I brave, but those I cannot bear:
My rival brother, while I 'm held in chains,
In freedom reaps the fruit of all my pains.
Cort. Let it be never said that he, whose breast
Is filled with love, should break a lover's rest—
Haste! lose no time!—your sister sets you free:—
And tell the king, my generous enemy,
I offer still those terms he had before,
Only ask leave his daughter to adore.
Guy. Brother, (that name my breast shall ever own,
The name of foe be but in battles known;)
For some few days all hostile acts forbear,
That, if the king consents, it seem not fear:
His heart is noble, and great souls must be
Most sought and courted in adversity.—
Three days, I hope, the wished success will tell.
Cyd. Till that long time,
Cort. Till that long time, farewell.