_Bend._ No doubt, the emperor. We must not be surprised in conference. Trust to my management the tyrant's death, And haste yourself to join with Mustapha. The officer, who guards the gate, is yours: When you have gained that pass, divide your force; Yourself in person head one chosen half, And march to oppress the faction in consult With dying Dorax. Fate has driven them all Into the net; you must be bold and sudden: Spare none; and if you find him struggling yet With pangs of death, trust not his rolling eyes And heaving gasps; for poison may be false,-- The home thrust of a friendly sword is sure. _Mul. Zeyd._ Doubt not my conduct; they shall be surprised. Mercy may wait without the gate one night, At morn I'll take her in. _Bend._ Here lies your way; You meet your brother there. _Mul. Zeyd._ May we ne'er meet! For, like the twins of Leda, when I mount, He gallops down the skies. [_Exit_ MUL. ZEYD. _Bend._ He comes:--Now, heart, Be ribbed with iron for this one attempt; Set ope thy sluices, send the vigorous blood Through every active limb for my relief; Then take thy rest within thy quiet cell, For thou shalt drum no more. _Enter Emperor, and Guards attending him._ _Emp._ What news of our affairs, and what of Dorax? Is he no more? say that, and make me happy. _Bend._ May all your enemies be like that dog, Whose parting soul is labouring at the lips. _Emp._ The people, are they raised? _Bend._ And marshalled too; Just ready for the march. _Emp._ Then I'm at ease. _Bend._ The night is yours; the glittering host of heaven Shines but for you; but most the star of love, That twinkles you to fair Almeyda's bed. Oh, there's a joy to melt in her embrace, Dissolve in pleasure, And make the gods curse immortality, That so they could not die. But haste, and make them yours. _Emp._ I will; and yet A kind of weight hangs heavy at my heart; My flagging soul flies under her own pitch, Like fowl in air too damp, and lugs along, As if she were a body in a body, And not a mounting substance made of fire. My senses, too, are dull and stupified, Their edge rebated:--sure some ill approaches, And some kind sprite knocks softly at my soul, To tell me, fate's at hand[6]. _Bend._ Mere fancies all. Your soul has been before-hand with your body, And drunk so deep a draught of promised bliss, She slumbers o'er the cup; no danger's near, But of a surfeit at too full a feast. _Emp._ It may be so; it looks so like the dream That overtook me, at my waking hour, This morn; and dreams, they say, are then divine, When all the balmy vapours are exhaled, And some o'erpowering god continues sleep. 'Twas then, methought, Almeyda, smiling, came, Attended with a train of all her race, Whom, in the rage of empire, I had murdered: But now, no longer foes, they gave me joy Of my new conquest, and, with helping hands, Heaved me into our holy prophet's arms, Who bore me in a purple cloud to heaven[7].