_Bend._ Be still, and learn the soothing arts of court: Adore his fortune, mix with flattering crowds; And, when they praise him most, be you the loudest. Your brother is luxurious, close, and cruel; Generous by fits, but permanent in mischief. The shadow of a discontent would ruin us; We must be safe, before we can be great. These things observed, leave me to shape the rest. _M. Zey._ You have the key; he opens inward to you. _Bend._ So often tried, and ever found so true, Has given me trust; and trust has given me means Once to be false for all. I trust not him; For, now his ends are served, and he grown absolute, How am I sure to stand, who served those ends? I know your nature open, mild, and grateful: In such a prince the people may be blest, And I be safe. _M. Zey._ My father! [_Embracing him._ _Bend._ My future king, auspicious Muley-Zeydan! Shall I adore you?--No, the place is public: I worship you within; the outward act Shall be reserved till nations follow me, And heaven shall envy you the kneeling world.-- You know the alcade of Alcazar, Dorax? _M. Zey._ The gallant renegade you mean? _Bend._ The same. That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest, Contains the shining treasure, of a soul Resolved and brave: He has the soldiers' hearts, And time shall make him ours. _M. Zey._ He's just upon us. _Bend._ I know him from afar, By the long stride, and by the sullen port.-- Retire, my lord. Wait on your brother's triumph; yours is next: His growth is but a wild and fruitless plant; I'll cut his barren branches to the stock, And graft you on to bear. _M. Zey._ My oracle! [_Exit_ M. ZEY. _Bend._ Yes, to delude your hopes.--Poor credulous fool! To think that I would give away the fruit Of so much toil, such guilt, and such damnation! If I am damned, it shall be for myself. This easy fool must be my stale, set up To catch the people's eyes: He's tame and merciful; Him I can manage, till I make him odious By some unpopular act; and then dethrone him. _Enter_ DORAX. Now, Dorax. _Dor._ Well, Benducar. _Bend._ Bare Benducar! _Dor._ Thou would'st have titles; take them then,--chief minister, First hangman of the state. _Bend._ Some call me, favourite. _Dor._ What's that?--his minion?-- Thou art too old to be a catamite!-- Now pr'ythee tell me, and abate thy pride, Is not Benducar, bare, a better name In a friend's mouth, than all those gaudy titles, Which I disdain to give the man I love? _Bend._ But always out of humour,-- _Dor._ I have cause: Though all mankind is cause enough for satire. _Bend._ Why, then, thou hast revenged thee on mankind. They say, in fight, thou hadst a thirsty sword, And well 'twas glutted there. _Dor._ I spitted frogs; I crushed a heap of emmets; A hundred of them to a single soul, And that but scanty weight too. The great devil Scarce thanked me for my pains; he swallows vulgar Like whipped cream,--feels them not in going down.