_Phil_. Marry him! then here upon my Knees I vow, [_Kneels_. To shake all Duty from my Soul; And all that Reverence Children owe a Parent, Shall henceforth be converted into Hate. [_Rises_. --Damnation! marry him! Oh, I cou’d curse my Birth! This will confirm the World in their Opinion, That she’s the worst of Women; That I am basely born too, (as she gives it out) That Thought alone does a just Rage inspire, And kindles round my Heart an active Fire. _Alan_. A Disobedience, Sir, to such a Parent, Heaven must forgive the Sin, if this be one: --Yet do not, Sir, in Words abate that Fire, Which will assist you a more effectual way. _Phil_. Death! I could talk of it an Age; And, like a Woman, fret my Anger high: Till like my Rage, I have advanc’d my Courage, Able to fight the World against my Mother. _Alan_. Our Wrongs without a Rage, will make us fight, Wrongs that wou’d make a Coward resolute. _Phil_. Come, noble Youth, Let us join both our several Wrongs in one, And from them make a solemn Resolution, Never to part our Interest, till this Moor, This worse than Devil Moor be sent to Hell. _Alon_. I do. _Phil_. Hark--hark--the Charge is sounded, let’s to Horse, St. _Jaques_ for the Right of _Spain_ and me. [_Exeunt_. SCENE III. _A Grave_. _Drums and Trumpets afar off,--with noise of fighting at a distance: After a little while, enter_ Philip _in a Rage_. _Phil_. Oh unjust Powers! why d’ye protect this Monster?-- And this damn’d Cardinal, that comes not up With the Castilian Troops? curse on his formal Politicks-- _Enter_ Alonzo. --_Alonzo_, where’s the Moor? _Alon_. The Moor--a Devil--never did Fiend of Hell, Compell’d by some Magician’s Charms, Break thro the Prison of the folded Earth With more swift Horrour, than this Prince of Fate Breaks thro our Troops in spite of Opposition. _Phil_. Death! ‘tis not his single Arm that works the Wonders, But our Cowardice--Oh, this Dog Cardinal! _Enter_ Antonio. _Ant_. Sound a Retreat, or else the Day is lost. _Phil_. I’ll beat that Cur to Death that sounds Retreat. _Enter_ Sebastian. _Sebast_. Sound a Retreat. _Phil_. Who is’t that tempts my Sword?--continue the Alarm, Fight on Pell-mell--fight--kill--be damn’d--do any thing But sound Retreat--Oh, this damn’d Coward Cardinal! [_Exeunt_. _The noise of fighting near; after a little while enter Philip again_. _Phil_. Not yet, ye Gods! Oh, this eternal Coward! _Enter_ Alonzo. _Alon_. Sir, bring up your Reserves, or all is lost; Ambition plumes the Moor, that makes him act Deeds of such Wonder, that even you wou’d envy them. _Phil_. ‘Tis well--I’ll raise my Glories to that dazling height, Shall darken his, or set in endless Night. [_Exeunt_. SCENE IV. _A Grove_.