SCENE VII.

MAHOMET, IRENE.

MAHOMET. 
Wilt thou descend, fair daughter of perfection,
To hear my vows, and give mankind a queen? 
Ah! cease, Irene, cease those flowing sorrows,
That melt a heart impregnable till now,
And turn thy thoughts, henceforth, to love and empire. 
How will the matchless beauties of Irene,
Thus bright in tears, thus amiable in ruin,
With all the graceful pride of greatness heighten’d,
Amidst the blaze of jewels and of gold,
Adorn a throne, and dignify dominion!

IRENE. 
Why all this glare of splendid eloquence,
To paint the pageantries of guilty state? 
Must I, for these, renounce the hope of heav’n,
Immortal crowns, and fulness of enjoyment?

MAHOMET. 
Vain raptures all—­For your inferiour natures,
Form’d to delight, and happy by delighting,
Heav’n has reserv’d no future paradise,
But bids you rove the paths of bliss, secure
Of total death, and careless of hereafter;
While heaven’s high minister, whose awful volume
Records each act, each thought of sov’reign man,
Surveys your plays with inattentive glance,
And leaves the lovely trifler unregarded.

IRENE. 
Why then has nature’s vain munificence
Profusely pour’d her bounties upon woman? 
Whence, then, those charms thy tongue has deign’d to flatter,
That air resistless, and enchanting blush,
Unless the beauteous fabrick was design’d
A habitation for a fairer soul?

MAHOMET. 
Too high, bright maid, thou rat’st exteriour grace: 
Not always do the fairest flow’rs diffuse
The richest odours, nor the speckled shells
Conceal the gem; let female arrogance
Observe the feather’d wand’rers of the sky;
With purple varied, and bedrop’d with gold,
They prune the wing, and spread the glossy plumes,
Ordain’d, like you, to flutter and to shine,
And cheer the weary passenger with musick.

IRENE. 
Mean as we are, this tyrant of the world
Implores our smiles, and trembles at our feet. 
Whence flow the hopes and fears, despair and rapture,
Whence all the bliss and agonies of love?

MAHOMET. 
Why, when the balm of sleep descends on man,
Do gay delusions, wand’ring o’er the brain,
Sooth the delighted soul with empty bliss? 
To want, give affluence? and to slav’ry, freedom? 
Such are love’s joys, the lenitives of life,
A fancy’d treasure, and a waking dream.

IRENE. 
Then let me once, in honour of our sex,
Assume the boastful arrogance of man. 
Th’ attractive softness, and th’ endearing smile,
And pow’rful glance, ’tis granted, are our own;
Nor has impartial nature’s frugal hand
Exhausted all her nobler gifts on you. 
Do not we share the comprehensive thought,
Th’ enlivening wit, the penetrating reason? 
Beats not the female breast with gen’rous passions,
The thirst of empire, and the love of glory?