_Abd_. Why, kill me then! you must do one or t’other. [_Kneels_. For thus--I cannot live--why dost thou weep? Thy every Tear’s enough to drown my Soul! How tame Love renders every feeble Sense! [_Rises_. --Gods! I shall turn Woman, and my Eyes inform me The Transformation’s near--Death! I’ll not endure it, I’ll fly before sh’as quite undone my Soul-- [_Offers to go_. But ‘tis not in my Power--she holds it fast-- And I can now command no single part-- [Returns. Tell me, bright Maid, if I were amiable, And you were uningag’d, could you then love me? _Leon_. No! I could die first. _Abd_. Hah!--awake, my Soul, from out this drousy Fit, And with thy wonted Bravery scorn thy Fetters. By Heaven, ‘tis gone! and I am now my self. Be gone, my dull Submission! my lazy Flame Grows sensible, and knows for what ‘twas kindled. Coy Mistress, you must yield, and quickly too: Were you devout as Vestals, pure as their Fire, Yet I wou’d wanton in the rifled Spoils Of all that sacred Innocence and Beauty. --Oh, my Desire’s grown high! Raging as midnight Flames let loose in Cities, And, like that too, will ruin where it lights. Come, this Apartment was design’d for Pleasure, And made thus silent, and thus gay for me; There I’ll convince that Error, that vainly made thee think I was not meant for Love. _Leon_. Am I betray’d? are all my Women gone? And have I nought but Heaven for my Defence? _Abd_. None else, and that’s too distant to befriend you. _Leon_. Oh, take my Life, and spare my dearer Honour! --Help, help, ye Powers that favour Innocence. [_Enter Women_. _Just as the Moor is going to force in_ Leonora, _enters to him_ Osmin _in haste_. _Osm_. My Lord, _Alonzo_-- _Abd_. What of him, you Slave--is he not secur’d? Speak, dull Intruder, that know’st not times and seasons, Or get thee hence. _Osm_. Not till I’ve done the Business which I came for. _Abd_. Slave!--that thou cam’st for. [_Stabs him in the Arm_. _Osm_. No, ‘twas to tell you, that _Alonzo_, Finding himself betray’d, made brave resistance; Some of your Slaves h’as killed, and some h’as wounded. _Abd_. ‘Tis time he were secured; I must assist my Guards, or all is lost. [_Exit_. _Leon_. Sure, _Osmin_, from the Gods thou cam’st, To hinder my undoing; and if thou dy’st, Heaven will almost forgive thy other Sins For this one pious Deed.-- But yet I hope thy Wound’s not mortal. _Osm_. ‘Tis only in my Arm--and, Madam, for this pity, I’ll live to do you Service. _Leon_. What Service can the Favourite of the Moor, Train’d up in Blood and Mischiefs, render me?