II.

PROLOGUE TO THE INDIAN QUEEN.

As the music plays a soft air, the curtain rises slowly and discovers an Indian boy and girl sleeping under two plantain-trees; and, when the curtain is almost up, the music turns into a tune expressing an alarm, at which the boy awakes, and speaks: 

  BOY.  Wake, wake, Quevira! our soft rest must cease,
  And fly together with our country’s peace! 
  No more must we sleep under plantain shade,
  Which neither heat could pierce, nor cold invade;
  Where bounteous nature never feels decay,
  And opening buds drive falling fruits away.

  QUE.  Why should men quarrel here, where all possess
  As much as they can hope for by success?—­
  None can have most, where nature is so kind,
  As to exceed man’s use, though not his mind. 10

  BOY.  By ancient prophecies we have been told,
  Our world shall be subdued by one more old;—­
  And, see, that world already’s hither come.

  QUE.  If these be they, we welcome then our doom! 
  Their loots are such, that mercy flows from thence,
  More gentle than our native innocence.

  BOY.  Why should we then fear these, our enemies,
  That rather seem to us like deities?

  QUE.  By their protection, let us beg to live;
  They came not here to conquer, but forgive. 20
  If so, your goodness may your power express,
  And we shall judge both best by our success.

* * * * *

  III.

EPILOGUE TO THE INDIAN QUEEN.

  SPOKEN BY MONTEZUMA.

  You see what shifts we are enforced to try,
  To help out wit with some variety;
  Shows may be found that never yet were seen,
  ’Tis hard to find such wit as ne’er has been: 
  You have seen all that this old world can do,
  We therefore try the fortune of the new,
  And hope it is below your aim to hit
  At untaught nature with your practised wit: 
  Our naked Indians, then, when wits appear,
  Would as soon choose to have the Spaniards here. 10
  ’Tis true, you have marks enough, the plot, the show,
  The poet’s scenes, nay, more, the painter’s too;
  If all this fail, considering the cost,
  ’Tis a true voyage to the Indies lost: 
  But if you smile on all, then these designs,
  Like the imperfect treasure of our minds,
  Will pass for current wheresoe’er they go,
  When to your bounteous hands their stamps they owe.

* * * * *

IV.

EPILOGUE TO THE INDIAN EMPEROR,

BY A MERCURY.