_King_. My Murdress!--what Devil did inspire thee With Thoughts so black and sinful? cou’d this fair Saint Be guilty of a Murder?--No, no, too cruel Mother, With her Eyes, her charming lovely Eyes, She might have kill’d, and her too virtuous Cruelty. --Oh my _Florella_! Sacred lovely Creature! _Flor_. My Death was kind, since it prevented yours, And by that Hand, which sav’d mine from a Guilt. [_Points to the_ Queen. --That Dagger I receiv’d of _Abdelazer_, To stab that Heart,--he said, that lov’d me best; But I design’d to overcome your Passion, And then to have vanquish’d _Abdelazer’s_ Jealousy: But finding you too faithful to be happy, I did resolve to die--and have my wish. --Farewel--my King--my Soul begins its flight, --And now--is hovering--in eternal--Night. [Dies. _King_. She’s gone--she’s gone--her sacred Soul is fled To that Divinity, of which it is a part; Too excellent to inhabit Earthly Bodies. _Alon_. Oh, Sir, you grieve too much, for one so foul. _King_. What profane Breath was that pronounc’d her foul? Thy Mother’s Soul, though turn’d into a Cherubim, Was black to hers--Oh, she was all divine. --_Alonzo_, was it thou?--her Brother! _Alon_. When she was good, I own’d that Title, Sir. _King_. Good!--by all the Gods, she was as chaste as Vestals, As Saints translated to Divine Abodes. I offer’d her to be my Queen, _Alonzo_, To share the growing Glories of my Youth; But uncorrupted she my Crown contemn’d, And on her Virtue’s Guard stood thus defended. [Alon. _weeps_. --Oh my _Florella_! let me here lie fix’d, [_Kneels_. And never rise, till I am cold and pale As thou, fair Saint, art now--But sure She cou’d not die;--that noble generous Heart, That arm’d with Love and Honour, did rebate All the fierce Sieges of my amorous Flame, Might sure defend it self against those Wounds Given by a Woman’s Hand,--or rather ‘twas a Devil’s. [_Rises_. --What dost thou merit for this Treachery? Thou vilest of thy Sex-- But thou’rt a thing I have miscall’d a Mother, And therefore will not touch thee--live to suffer By a more shameful way;--but here she lies, Whom I, though dead, must still adore as living. _Alon_. Sir, pray retire, there’s danger in your stay; When I reflect upon this Night’s Disorder, And the Queen’s Art to raise my Jealousy; And after that my Sister’s being murder’d, I must believe there is some deeper Plot, Something design’d against your sacred Person. _King. Alonzo_, raise the Court, I’ll find it, [_Ex_. Alonzo. Tho ‘twere hid within my Mother’s Soul. _Qu_. My gentle Son, pardon my kind mistake, I did believe her arm’d against thy Life.