CALI. 
Soon will th’ unequal contest be decided. 
Prospects, obscur’d by distance, faintly strike;
Each pleasure brightens, at its near approach,
And ev’ry danger shocks with double horrour.

MUSTAPHA. 
How shall I scorn the beautiful apostate! 
How will the bright Aspasia shine above her!

CALI. 
Should she, for proselytes are always zealous,
With pious warmth receive our prophet’s law—­

MUSTAPHA. 
Heav’n will contemn the mercenary fervour,
Which love of greatness, not of truth, inflames.

CALI. 
Cease, cease thy censures; for the sultan comes
Alone, with am’rous haste to seek his love.

SCENE IV.

MAHOMET, CALI, MUSTAPHA.

CALI. 
Hail! terrour of the monarchs of the world;
Unshaken be thy throne, as earth’s firm base;
Live, till the sun forgets to dart his beams,
And weary planets loiter in their courses!

MAHOMET. 
But, Cali, let Irene share thy prayers;
For what is length of days, without Irene? 
I come from empty noise, and tasteless pomp,
From crowds, that hide a monarch from himself,
To prove the sweets of privacy and friendship,
And dwell upon the beauties of Irene.

CALI. 
O may her beauties last, unchang’d by time,
As those that bless the mansions of the good!

MAHOMET. 
Each realm, where beauty turns the graceful shape,
Swells the fair breast, or animates the glance,
Adorns my palace with its brightest virgins;
Yet, unacquainted with these soft emotions,
I walk’d superiour through the blaze of charms,
Prais’d without rapture, left without regret. 
Why rove I now, when absent from my fair,
From solitude to crowds, from crowds to solitude,
Still restless, till I clasp the lovely maid,
And ease my loaded soul upon her bosom?

MUSTAPHA. 
Forgive, great sultan, that intrusive duty
Inquires the final doom of Menodorus,
The Grecian counsellor.

MAHOMET. 
Go, see him die;
His martial rhet’rick taught the Greeks resistance;
Had they prevail’d, I ne’er had known Irene.

[Exit Mustapha.

SCENE V.

MAHOMET, CALI.

MAHOMET. 
Remote from tumult, in th’ adjoining palace,
Thy care shall guard this treasure of my soul: 
There let Aspasia, since my fair entreats it,
With converse chase the melancholy moments. 
Sure, chill’d with sixty winter camps, thy blood,
At sight of female charms, will glow no more.

CALI. 
These years, unconquer’d Mahomet, demand
Desires more pure, and other cares than love. 
Long have I wish’d, before our prophet’s tomb,
To pour my pray’rs for thy successful reign,
To quit the tumults of the noisy camp,
And sink into the silent grave in peace.