Boab. With him go all my fears:  A guard there wait, And see him safe without the city gate.

  To them ABDELMELECH.

Now, Abdelmelech, is my brother dead?

Abdelm. Th’ usurper to the Christian camp is fled;
Whom as Granada’s lawful king they own,
And vow, by force, to seat him on the throne. 
Mean time the rebels in the Albayzyn rest;
Which is in Lyndaraxa’s name possest.

Boab. Haste and reduce it instantly by force.

Abdelm. First give me leave to prove a milder course.  She will, perhaps, on summons yield the place.

Boab. We cannot to your suit refuse her grace.
                         [One enters hastily, and whispers ABENAMAR.

Aben. How fortune persecutes this hoary head! 
My Ozmyn is with Selin’s daughter fled. 
But he’s no more my son: 
My hate shall like a Zegry him pursue,
’Till I take back what blood from me he drew.

Boab. Let war and vengeance be to-morrow’s care;
But let us to the temple now repair. 
A thousand torches make the mosque more bright: 
This must be mine and Almahide’s night. 
Hence, ye importunate affairs of state,
You should not tyrannize on love, but wait. 
Had life no love, none would for business live;
Yet still from love the largest part we give;
And must be forced, in empire’s weary toil,
To live long wretched, to be pleased a while. [Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

  Success, which can no more than beauty last,
  Makes our sad poet mourn your favours past: 
  For, since without desert he got a name,
  He fears to lose it now with greater shame. 
  Fame, like a little mistress of the town,
  Is gained with ease, but then she’s lost as soon: 
  For, as those tawdry misses, soon or late,
  Jilt such as keep them at the highest rate;
  And oft the lacquey, or the brawny clown,
  Gets what is hid in the loose-bodied gown,—­
  So, fame is false to all that keep her long;
  And turns up to the fop that’s brisk and young. 
  Some wiser poet now would leave fame first;
  But elder wits are, like old lovers, cursed: 
  Who, when the vigour of their youth is spent,
  Still grow more fond, as they grow impotent. 
  This, some years hence, our poet’s case may prove;
  But yet, he hopes, he’s young enough to love. 
  When forty comes, if e’er he live to see
  That wretched, fumbling age of poetry,
  ’Twill be high time to bid his muse adieu:—­
  Well may he please himself, but never you. 
  Till then, he’ll do as well as he began,
  And hopes you will not find him less a man. 
  Think him not duller for this year’s delay;
  He was prepared, the women were away;
  And men, without their parts, can hardly play. 
  If they, through sickness, seldom did appear,
  Pity the virgins of each theatre: