Bend. Be still, and learn the soothing arts of court: 
Adore his fortune, mix with flattering crowds;
And, when they praise him most, be you the loudest. 
Your brother is luxurious, close, and cruel;
Generous by fits, but permanent in mischief. 
The shadow of a discontent would ruin us;
We must be safe, before we can be great. 
These things observed, leave me to shape the rest.

M.  Zey. You have the key; he opens inward to you.

Bend. So often tried, and ever found so true,
Has given me trust; and trust has given me means
Once to be false for all.  I trust not him;
For, now his ends are served, and he grown absolute,
How am I sure to stand, who served those ends? 
I know your nature open, mild, and grateful: 
In such a prince the people may be blest,
And I be safe.

M.  Zey. My father! [Embracing him.

Bend. My future king, auspicious Muley-Zeydan! 
Shall I adore you?—­No, the place is public: 
I worship you within; the outward act
Shall be reserved till nations follow me,
And heaven shall envy you the kneeling world.—­
You know the alcade of Alcazar, Dorax?

M.  Zey. The gallant renegade you mean?

Bend. The same. 
That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest,
Contains the shining treasure, of a soul
Resolved and brave:  He has the soldiers’ hearts,
And time shall make him ours.

M.  Zey. He’s just upon us.

Bend. I know him from afar,
By the long stride, and by the sullen port.—­
Retire, my lord. 
Wait on your brother’s triumph; yours is next: 
His growth is but a wild and fruitless plant;
I’ll cut his barren branches to the stock,
And graft you on to bear.

M.  Zey. My oracle! [Exit M. ZEY.

Bend. Yes, to delude your hopes.—­Poor credulous fool! 
To think that I would give away the fruit
Of so much toil, such guilt, and such damnation! 
If I am damned, it shall be for myself. 
This easy fool must be my stale, set up
To catch the people’s eyes:  He’s tame and merciful;
Him I can manage, till I make him odious
By some unpopular act; and then dethrone him.

  Enter DORAX.

Now, Dorax.

Dor. Well, Benducar.

Bend. Bare Benducar!

Dor. Thou would’st have titles; take them then,—­chief minister, First hangman of the state.

Bend. Some call me, favourite.

Dor. What’s that?—­his minion?—­
Thou art too old to be a catamite!—­
Now pr’ythee tell me, and abate thy pride,
Is not Benducar, bare, a better name
In a friend’s mouth, than all those gaudy titles,
Which I disdain to give the man I love?

Bend. But always out of humour,—­