_Queen._ Alas, ‘tis better we should perish here, than stay to expect the Violence of his Passion, to which my Heart’s too sensibly inclin’d. _Ana._ Why do you not obey its Dictates then? why do you fly the Conqueror? _Queen._ Not fly--not fly the Murderer of my Lord? _Ana._ What World, what Resolution can preserve you? and what he cannot gain by soft submission, Force will at last o’ercome. _Queen._ I wish there were in Nature one excuse, either by Force or Reason to compel me:--For Oh, _Anaria_--I adore this General;--take from my Soul a Truth--till now conceal’d--at twelve Years old--at the _Pauwomungian_ Court, I saw this Conqueror. I saw him young and gay as new-born Spring, glorious and charming as the Mid-day’s Sun; I watch’d his Looks, and listned when he spoke, and thought him more than mortal. _Ana._ He has a graceful Form. _Queen._ At last a fatal Match concluded was between my Lord and me; I gave my Hand, but oh, how far my Heart was from consenting, the angry Gods are Witness. _Ana._ ‘Twas pity. _Queen._ Twelve tedious Moons I pass’d in silent Languishment; Honour endeavouring to destroy my Love, but all in vain; for still my Pain return’d whenever I beheld my Conqueror; but now when I consider him as Murderer of my Lord-- [Fiercely.] I sigh and wish--some other fatal Hand had given him his Death.--But now there’s a necessity, I must be brave and overcome my Heart; What if I do? ah, whither shall I fly? I have no _Amazonian_ Fire about me, all my Artillery is Sighs and Tears, the Earth my Bed, and Heaven my Canopy. [Weeps. [After Noise of Fighting. Hah, we are surpriz’d; Oh, whither shall I fly? And yet methinks a certain trembling Joy, spite of my Soul, spite of my boasted Honour, runs shivering round my Heart. Enter an _Indian_. _Ind._ Madam, your Out-guards are surpriz’d by _Bacon_, who hews down all before him, and demands the Queen with such a Voice, and Eyes so fierce and angry, he kills us with his Looks. _Cav._ Draw up your poison’d Arrows to the head, and aim them at his Heart, sure some will hit. _Queen._ Cruel _Cavaro_,--wou’d ‘twere fit for me to contradict thy Justice. [Aside. _Bac._ [Within.] The Queen, ye Slaves, give me the Queen, and live! He enters furiously, beating back some _Indians_; _Cavaro’s_ Party going to shoot, the _Queen_ runs in. _Queen._ Hold, hold, I do command ye. [_Bacon_ flies on ‘em as they shoot and miss him, fights like a Fury, and wounds the _Queen_ in the Disorder; beats them all out. --hold thy commanding Hand, and do not kill me, who wou’d not hurt thee to regain my Kingdom-- [He snatches her in his Arms, she reels. _Bac._ Hah--a Woman’s Voice,--what art thou? Oh my Fears! _Queen._ Thy Hand has been too cruel to a Heart--whose Crime was only tender Thoughts for thee. _Bac._ The Queen! What is’t my sacrilegious Hand has done! _Queen._ The noblest Office of a gallant Friend, thou’st sav’d my Honour, and hast given me Death.