_M. Mol._ [_To Ben._] Mark him, who now approaches to the lottery: He looks secure of death, superior greatness, Like Jove, when he made Fate, and said, Thou art The slave of my creation.--I admire him. _Bend._ He looks as man was made; with face erect, That scorns his brittle corpse, and seems ashamed He's not all spirit; his eyes, with a dumb pride, Accusing fortune that he fell not warm; Yet now disdains to live. [SEBAST. _draws a black._ _M. Mol._ He has his wish; And I have failed of mine. _Dor._ Robbed of my vengeance, by a trivial chance! [_Aside._ Fine work above, that their anointed care Should die such little death! or did his genius Know mine the stronger daemon, feared the grapple, And looking round him, found this nook of fate, To skulk behind my sword?--Shall I discover him?-- Still he would not die mine; no thanks to my Revenge; reserved but to more royal shambles. 'Twere base, too, and below those vulgar souls, That shared his danger, yet not one disclosed him, But, struck with reverence, kept an awful silence. I'll see no more of this;--dog of a prophet! [_Exit_ DORAX. _M. Mol._ One of these three is a whole hecatomb, And therefore only one of them shall die: The rest are but mute cattle; and when death Comes like a rushing lion, couch like spaniels, With lolling tongues, and tremble at the paw: Let lots again decide it. [_The Three draw again; and the Lot falls on_ SEBASTIAN. _Sebast._ Then there's no more to manage: if I fall, It shall be like myself; a setting sun Should leave a track of glory in the skies.-- Behold Sebastian, king of Portugal. _M. Mol._ Sebastian! ha! it must be he; no other Could represent such suffering majesty. I saw him, as he terms himself, a sun Struggling in dark eclipse, and shooting day On either side of the black orb that veiled him. _Sebast._ Not less even in this despicable now, Than when my name filled Afric with affright, And froze your hearts beneath your torrid zone. _Bend._ [_To M. Mol._] Extravagantly brave! even to an impudence Of greatness. _Sebast._ Here satiate all your fury: Let fortune empty her whole quiver on me; I have a soul, that, like an ample shield, Can take in all, and verge enough for more. I would have conquered you; and ventured only A narrow neck of land for a third world, To give my loosened subjects room to play. Fate was not mine, Nor am I fate's. Now I have pleased my longing, And trod the ground which I beheld from far, I beg no pity for this mouldering clay; For, if you give it burial, there it takes Possession of your earth; If burnt and scattered in the air, the winds, That strow my dust, diffuse my royalty, And spread me o'er your clime: for where one atom Of mine shall light, know, there Sebastian reigns. _M. Mol._ What shall I do to conquer thee? _Sebast._ Impossible! Souls know no conquerors. _M. Mol._ I'll shew thee for a monster through my Afric.