_Leon._ Alas, my lord! why talk you of the grave? Your friend is dead: in friendship you sustain A mighty loss; repair it with my love. _Alon._ Thy love, thou piece of witchcraft! I would say, Thou brightest angel! I could gaze for ever. But oh, those eyes! those murderers! Oh, whence, Whence didst thou steal their burning orbs? from heaven? Thou didst; and 'tis religion to adore them. _Leon._ My best Alonzo, moderate your thoughts. Extremes still fright me, though of love itself. _Alon._ Extremes indeed! it hurry'd me away; But I come home again--and now for justice-- And now for death--It is impossible-- [_aside._ I leave her to just heav'n. [_drops the dagger, goes off._ _Leon._ Ha, a dagger! What dost thou say, thou minister of death? What dreadful tale dost tell me?--Let me think-- _Enter Zanga._ _Zan._ Death to my tow'ring hope! Oh! fall from high! My close, long-labour'd scheme at once is blasted, That dagger, found, will cause her to inquire; Inquiry will discover all; my hopes Of vengeance perish; I myself am lost-- Curse on the coward's heart; wither his hand, Which held the steel in vain!--what can be done? Where can I fix?--that's something still--'twill breed Fell rage and bitterness betwixt their souls, Which may, perchance, grow up to greater evil: If not, 'tis all I can--It shall be so-- [_aside._ _Leon._ Oh, Zanga, I am sinking in my fears! Alonzo dropp'd this dagger as he left me, And left me in a strange disorder too. What can this mean? Angels preserve his life! _Zan._ Yours, madam, yours. _Leon._ What, Zanga, dost thou say? _Zan._ Carry you goodness then to such extremes, So blinded to the faults of him you love, That you perceive not he is jealous? _Leon._ Heav'ns! And yet a thousand things recur that swear it. What villain could inspire him with that thought? It is not of the growth of his own nature. _Zan._ Some villain; who, hell knows; but he is jealous; And 'tis most fit a heart so pure as yours Do itself justice, and assert its honour, And make him conscious of his stab to virtue. _Leon._ Jealous! it sickens at my heart. Unkind, Ungen'rous, groundless, weak, and insolent! Why, wherefore? on what shadow of occasion? Oh, how the great man lessens to my thought! How could so mean a vice as jealousy Live in a throng of such exalted virtues! I scorn and hate, yet love him, and adore. I cannot, will not, dare not, think it true, 'Till from himself I know it. [_exit._ _Zan._ This succeeds Just to my wish. Now she, with violence, Upbraids him; he, not doubting she is guilty, Rages no less; and if on either side The waves run high, there still lives hope of ruin. _Re-enter Alonzo._ My lord-- _Alon._ Oh, Zanga, hold thy peace! I am no coward; But heav'n itself did hold my hand; I felt it, By the well-being of my soul, I did. I'll think of vengeance at another season. _Zan._ My lord, her guilt--