_Isabella_, Queen of _Spain_, Mother to _Ferdinand_ and _Philip_, in love with _Abdelazer_. Mrs. _Lee_. _Leonora_, her Daughter, Sister to _Ferdinand_ and _Philip_. Mrs. _Barrey_. _Florella_, Wife to _Abdelazer_, and Sister to Mrs. _Betterton_. _Alonzo_. _Elvira_, Woman to the Queen. Mrs. _Osborne_. A Nymph, and Shepherdesses. Other Women Attendants. SCENE _Spain_, and in the Camp. ACT I. SCENE I. _A rich Chamber_. _A Table with Lights_, Abdelazer _sullenly leaning his Head on his Hands: after a little while, still Musick plays_. SONG. _Love _in fantastick Triumph sat, Whilst bleeding Hearts around him flow’d, For whom fresh Pains he did create, And strange Tyrannick Pow’r he shewed; From thy bright Eyes he took his Fires, Which round about in sport he hurl’d; But ‘twas from mine he took Desires, Enough t’undo the amorous World. From me he took his Sighs and Tears, From thee his Pride and Cruelty; From me his Languishments and Fears, And ev’ry killing Dart from thee: Thus thou, and I, the God have arrri’d, And set him up a Deity; But my poor Heart alone is harm’d, Whilst thine the Victor is, and free_. [_After which he rouzes, and gazes_. _Abd_. On me this Musick lost?--this Sound on me That hates all Softness?--What, ho, my Slaves! _Enter_ Osmin, Zarrack. _Osm_. My gracious Lord-- [_Enter_ Queen, Elvira. _Qu_. My dearest _Abdelazer_-- _Abd_. Oh, are you there?--Ye Dogs, how came she in? Did I not charge you on your Lives to watch, That none disturb my Privacy? _Qu_. My gentle _Abdelazer_, ‘tis thy Queen, Who ‘as laid aside the Business of her State, To wanton in the kinder Joys of Love-- Play all your sweetest Notes, such as inspire The active Soul with new and soft Desire, [_To_ the Musick, they play softly. Whilst we from Eyes--thus dying, fan the Fire. [_She sits down by him_. _Abd_. Cease that ungrateful Noise. [_Musick_ ceases. _Qu_. Can ought that I command displease my Moor? _Abd_. Away, fond Woman. _Qu_. Nay, prithee be more kind. _Abd_. Nay, prithee, good Queen, leave me--I am dull, Unfit for Dalliance now. _Qu_. Why dost thou frown?--to whom was that Curse sent? _Abd_. To thee-- _Qu_. To me?--it cannot be--to me, sweet Moor?-- No, no, it cannot--prithee smile upon me-- Smile, whilst a thousand Cupids shall descend And call thee Jove, and wait upon thy Smiles, Deck thy smooth Brow with Flowers; Whilst in my Eyes, needing no other Glass, Thou shalt behold and wonder at thy Beauty. _Abd_. Away, away, be gone-- _Qu_. Where hast thou learnt this Language, that can say But those rude Words--Away, away, be gone? Am I grown ugly now? _Abd_. Ugly as Hell-- _Qu_. Didst thou not love me once, and swore that Heav’n Dwelt in my Face and Eyes?