_Mess_. Such as brings victory without a fight. The prince Acacis lives-- _Zemp_. Oh, I am blest!-- _Mess_. Reserve some joy till I have told the rest. He's safe, and only wants his liberty: But that great man, that carries victory Where'er he goes; that mighty man, by whom In three set battles we were overcome; Ill used (it seems) by his ungrateful king, Does to our camp his fate and valour bring. The troop gaze on him, as if some bright star Shot to their aids; call him the god of war: Whilst he, as if all conquest did of right Belong to him, bids them prepare to fight; Which if they should delay one hour, he swears He'll leave them to their dangers, or their fears, And shame, which is the ignoble coward's choice. At this the army seemed to have one voice, United in a shout, and called upon The god-like stranger, "Lead us, lead us on." Make haste, great sir, lest you should come too late, To share with them in victory, or fate. _Zemp_. My general, go; the gods be on our side; Let valour act, but let discretion guide. [_Exit_ TRAX. Great god of vengeance, I see thou dost begin to hear me now: Make me thy offering, if I break my vow. [_Exeunt_. ACT II. SCENE I. _Enter_ INCA _and_ ORAZIA, _as pursued in a battle_. _Oraz_. O fly, sir, fly; like torrents your swift foes Come rolling on-- _Inca_. The gods can but destroy. The noblest way to fly is that death shows; I'll court her now, since victory's grown coy. _Oraz_. Death's winged to your pursuit, and yet you wait To meet her-- _Inca_. Poor Orazia, time and fate Must once o'ertake me, though I now should fly. _Oraz_. Do not meet death; but when it comes, then die. _Enter three Soldiers_. _3 Sold_. Stand, sir, and yield yourself, and that fair prey. _Inca_. You speak to one, unpractised to obey. _Enter_ MONTEZUMA. _Mont_. Hold, villains, hold, or your rude lives shall be Lost in the midst of your own victory: These have I hunted for;--nay, do not stare; Be gone, and in the common plunder share. [_Exeunt Soldiers_. How different is my fate, from theirs, whose fame From conquest grows! from conquest grows my shame. _Inca_. Why dost thou pause? thou canst not give me back, With fruitless grief, what I enjoyed before; No more than seas, repenting of a wreck, Can with a calm our buried wealth restore. _Mont_. 'Twere vain to own repentance, since I know Thy scorn, which did my passions once despise, Once more would make my swelling anger flow, Which now ebbs lower than your miseries: The gods, that in my fortunes were unkind, Gave me not sceptres, nor such gilded things; But, whilst I wanted crowns, enlarged my mind To despise sceptres, and dispose of kings. _Inca_. Thou art but grown a rebel by success, And I, that scorned Orazia should be tied To thee my slave, must now esteem thee less: Rebellion is a greater guilt than pride.