_Alon_. Hold--hold, my Prince. _Osm_. Great Sir, what mean you? [_To_ Abd. The Victory being yours, to give your Life away On one so mad and desperate. [_Their Parties draw_. _Phil. Alonzo_, hold, We two will be the Fate of this great Day. _Abd_. And I’ll forego all I’ve already won, And claim no Conquest; the whole heaps of Bodies, Which this Right-hand has slain, declare me Victor. _Phil_. No matter who’s the Victor; I have thee in my view, And will not leave thee, Till thou hast crown’d those Heaps, and made ‘em all The glorious Trophies of my Victory--Come on, Sir. _Alon_. You shall not fight thus single; If you begin, by Heaven, we’ll all fall on. _Phil_. Dost thou suspect my Power? Oh, I am arm’d with more than compleat Steel, The Justice of my Quarrel; when I look Upon my Father’s Wrongs, my Brother’s Wounds, My Mother’s Infamy, _Spain’s_ Misery, I am all Fire; and yet I am too cold To let out Blood enough for my Revenge: --Therefore stir not a Sword on my side. _Abd_. Nor on mine. _They fight; both their Parties engage on either side; the Scene draws off, and discovers both the Armies, which all fall on and make the main Battel:_ Philip _prevails, the_ Moors _give ground: Then the Scene closes to the the Grove. Enter some_ Moors _flying in disorder_. SCENE VI. _Changes to a Tent_. _Enter_ Abdelazer, Roderigo, Osmin, Zarrack, _and some others of his Party_. _Rod_. Oh, fly, my Lord, fly, for the Day is lost. _Abd_. There are three hundred and odd Days i’th Year, And cannot we lose one? dismiss thy Fears, They’ll make a Coward of thee. _Osm_. Sir, all the noble _Spaniards_ have forsook you; Your Soldiers faint, are round beset with Enemies, Nor can you shun your Fate, but by your Flight. _Abd_. I can--and must--in spite of Fate: The Wheel of War shall turn about again, And dash the Current of his Victories.-- This is the Tent I’ve pitched, at distance from the Armies, To meet the Queen and Cardinal; Charm’d with the Magick of Dissimulation, I know by this h’as furl’d his Ensigns up, And is become a tame and coward Ass. [_A Retreat is sounded_. --Hark--hark, ‘tis done: oh, my inchanting Engine! --Dost thou not hear Retreat sounded? _Rod_. Sure ‘tis impossible. _Abd_. She has prevail’d--a Woman’s Tongue and Eyes Are Forces stronger than Artilleries. _Enter_ Queen, Cardinal, _Women, and Soldiers_. --We are betray’d-- _Qu_. What means this Jealousy? lay by your Weapons. And embrace--the sight of these beget Suspicion: --_Abdelazer_, by my Birth he comes in peace; Lord Cardinal, on my Honour so comes he. _Abd_. Let him withdraw his Troops then. _Qu_. They’re Guards for all our Safeties: Give me your Hand, Prince Cardinal--thine, _Abdelazer_-- [_She brings them together, they embrace_. This blest Accord I do behold with Joy.