_Alb._ Health and success our emperor attends; The forces, marching on the plain, are friends. Porphyrius, whom you Egypt's prætor made, Is come from Alexandria to your aid. _Max._ It well becomes the conduct and the care Of one so famed and fortunate in war. You must resign, Placidius, your command; To him I promised the prætorian band. Your duty in your swift compliance show; I will provide some other charge for you. _Plac._ May Cæsar's pleasure ever be obeyed, With that submission, which by me is paid. Now all the curses envy ever knew, Or could invent, Porphyrius pursue! [_Aside._ _Alb._ Placidius does too tamely bear his loss; [_To_ CHARINUS. This new pretender will all power engross: All things must now by his direction move, And you, sir, must resign your father's love. _Char._ Yes; every name to his repute must bow; There grow no bays for any other brow. He blasts my early honour in the bud, Like some tall tree, the monster of the wood; O'ershading all which under him would grow, He sheds his venom on the plants below. _Alb._ You must some noble action undertake, Equal with his your own renown to make. _Char._ I am not for a slothful envy born; I'll do't this day, in the dire vision's scorn. He comes: We two like the twin stars appear; Never to shine together in one sphere. [_Exeunt_ CHAR. _and_ ALBINUS. _Enter_ PORPHYRIUS _attended_. _Max._ Porphyrius, welcome; welcome as the light To cheerful birds, or as to lovers night; Welcome as what thou bring'st me, victory. _Por._ That waits, sir, on your arms, and not on me. You left a conquest more than half achieved, And for whose easiness I almost grieved. Yours only the Egyptian laurels are; I bring you but the reliques of your war. The Christian princess, to receive your doom, Is from her conquered Alexandria come; Her mother, in another vessel sent, A storm surprised, nor know I the event: Both from your bounty must receive their state, Or must on your triumphant chariot wait. _Max._ From me they can expect no grace, whose minds An execrable superstition blinds. _Apol._ The gods, who raised you to the world's command, Require these victims from your grateful hand. _Por._ To minds resolved, the threats of death are vain; They run to fires, and there enjoy their pain; Not Mucius made more haste his hand to expose To greedy flames, than their whole bodies those. _Max._ How to their own destruction they are blind! Zeal is the pious madness of the mind. _Por._ They all our famed philosophers defy, And would our faith by force of reason try. _Apol._ I beg it, sir, by all the powers divine. That in their right this combat may be mine.