MAHOMET. 
Some artful wile of counterfeited love! 
Some soft decoy to lure me to destruction! 
And thou, the curs’d accomplice of her treason,
Declare thy message, and expect thy doom.

MURZA. 
The queen requested, that a chosen troop
Might intercept the traitor Greek, Demetrius,
Then ling’ring with his captive mistress here.

MUSTAPHA. 
The Greek, Demetrius! whom th’ expiring bassa
Declar’d the chief associate of his guilt!

MAHOMET. 
A chosen troop—­to intercept—­Demetrius—­
The queen requested—­Wretch, repeat the message;
And, if one varied accent prove thy falsehood,
Or but one moment’s pause betray confusion,
Those trembling limbs—­Speak out, thou shiv’ring traitor.

MURZA. 
The queen requested—­

MAHOMET.  Who? the dead Irene? 
Was she then guiltless!  Has my thoughtless rage
Destroy’d the fairest workmanship of heav’n! 
Doom’d her to death, unpity’d and unheard,
Amidst her kind solicitudes for me! 
Ye slaves of cruelty, ye tools of rage,
[To Hasan and Caraza. 
Ye blind, officious ministers of folly,
Could not her charms repress your zeal for murder? 
Could not her pray’rs, her innocence, her tears,
Suspend the dreadful sentence for an hour? 
One hour had freed me from the fatal errour! 
One hour had say’d me from despair and madness.

CARAZA. 
Your fierce impatience forc’d us from your presence,
Urg’d us to speed, and bade us banish pity,
Nor trust our passions with her fatal charms.

MAHOMET. 
What hadst thou lost, by slighting those commands? 
Thy life, perhaps—­Were but Irene spar’d,
Well, if a thousand lives like thine had perish’d;
Such beauty, sweetness, love, were cheaply bought
With half the grov’ling slaves that load the globe.

MUSTAPHA. 
Great is thy woe!  But think, illustrious sultan,
Such ills are sent for souls, like thine, to conquer. 
Shake off this weight of unavailing grief,
Rush to the war, display thy dreadful banners,
And lead thy troops, victorious, round the world.

MAHOMET. 
Robb’d of the maid, with whom I wish’d to triumph,
No more I burn for fame, or for dominion;
Success and conquest now are empty sounds,
Remorse and anguish seize on all my breast;
Those groves, whose shades embower’d the dear Irene,
Heard her last cries, and fann’d her dying beauties,
Shall hide me from the tasteless world for ever.
[Mahomet goes back, and returns. 
Yet, ere I quit the sceptre of dominion,
Let one just act conclude the hateful day—­
Hew down, ye guards, those vassals of destruction,
[Pointing to Hasan and Caraza. 
Those hounds of blood, that catch the hint to kill,
Bear off, with eager haste, th’ unfinished sentence,
And speed the stroke, lest mercy should o’ertake them.