CARAZA. 
Then hear, great Mahomet, the voice of truth.

MAHOMET. 
Hear! shall I hear thee! didst thou hear Irene?

CARAZA. 
Hear but a moment.

MAHOMET. 
Hadst thou heard a moment,
Thou might’st have liv’d, for thou hadst spar’d Irene.

CARAZA. 
I heard her, pitied her, and wish’d to save her.

MAHOMET. 
And wish’d—­be still thy fate to wish in vain.

CARAZA. 
I heard, and soften’d, till Abdalla brought
Her final doom, and hurried her destruction.

MAHOMET. 
Abdalla brought her doom!  Abdalla brought it! 
The wretch, whose guilt, declar’d by tortur’d Cali,
My rage and grief had hid from my remembrance: 
Abdalla brought her doom!

  HASAN. 
                         Abdalla brought it,
While yet she begg’d to plead her cause before thee.

  MAHOMET. 
O, seize me, madness—­Did she call on me! 
I feel, I see the ruffian’s barb’rous rage. 
He seiz’d her melting in the fond appeal,
And stopp’d the heav’nly voice that call’d on me. 
My spirits fail; awhile support me, vengeance—­
Be just, ye slaves; and, to be just, be cruel;
Contrive new racks, imbitter ev’ry pang,
Inflict whatever treason can deserve,
Which murder’d innocence that call’d on me.
                [Exit Mahomet; Abdalla is dragged off.

SCENE XIII.

HASAN, CARAZA, MUSTAPHA, MURZA.

MUSTAPHA to MURZA. 
What plagues, what tortures, are in store for thee,
Thou sluggish idler, dilatory slave! 
Behold the model of consummate beauty,
Torn from the mourning earth by thy neglect.

MURZA. 
Such was the will of heav’n—­A band of Greeks,
That mark’d my course, suspicious of my purpose,
Rush’d out and seiz’d me, thoughtless and unarm’d,
Breathless, amaz’d, and on the guarded beach
Detain’d me, till Demetrius set me free.

MUSTAPHA. 
So sure the fall of greatness, rais’d on crimes! 
So fix’d the justice of all conscious heav’n! 
When haughty guilt exults with impious joy,
Mistake shall blast, or accident destroy;
Weak man, with erring rage, may throw the dart,
But heav’n shall guide it to the guilty heart.

EPILOGUE.

BY SIR WILLIAM YONGE.

Marry a Turk! a haughty, tyrant king! 
Who thinks us women born to dress and sing
To please his fancy! see no other man! 
Let him persuade me to it—­if he can;
Besides, he has fifty wives; and who can bear
To have the fiftieth part, her paltry share?

’Tis true, the fellow’s handsome, straight, and tall,
But how the devil should he please us all! 
My swain is little—­true—­but, be it known,
My pride’s to have that little all my own. 
Men will be ever to their errours blind,
Where woman’s not allow’d to speak her mind. 
I swear this eastern pageantry is nonsense,
And for one man—­one wife’s enough in conscience.