_Ram._ Prop of my age, and pattern of my youth, But such as far excels the original, Ten thousand blessings on thee for this deed! _Alph._ Heaven and my fate speak other language to me. No blessings, none, but millions of their curses, Like burning glasses, with contracted beams, Are pointed on my head. _Ram._ What words are these, on this auspicious day? _Alph._ Oh, fly me, fly me, sir; Lest the contagion of my woes Pollute my father's joys; Victoria's gone, And with her went Alphonso's life and soul. _Ram._ You had her in your power, and were too easy. _Alph._ Or, rather, she too cruel. Her duty forced her hence, in scorn of love. _Ram._ You must resume your arms, And force her father's will, to make her yours. Why, like a woman, stand you thus complaining, Born to the strength, and courage of a man? Rouse up your spirits to a just revenge, Like lightning wasteful, and like thunder loud. Rivers of blood shall run about the town, For which you were so lavish of your own. Garcia shall die, and by his death remove The cause of jealousy, and injured love; The king himself, the ungrateful king, shall fall; Of all our ills the curst original. _Alph._ Beseech you, sir, no more. _Ram._ Your reason, son? _Alph._ For you have given my soul so large a swing, That it bounds back again with double force, Only because you carried it too far. You've set an image of so vast destruction Before my sight, that reason shuns the approach, And dares not view the fearful precipice. _Ram._ Is vengeance, which is said so sweet a morsel, That heaven reserves it for its proper taste, Is it so soon disrelished? _Alph._ What have the people done, the sheep of princes, That they should perish for the shepherd's fault? They bring their yearly wool, to clothe their owners; And yet, when bare themselves, are culled for slaughter. Should I do this, what could the wolf do more, Than what the master did? _Ram._ Then Garcia, must he 'scape? _Alph._ 'Tis true, I had him at my mercy once; I should have killed him then, or, once forgiven, Should spare him now. _Ram._ [_Aside._] His noble soul relents. _Alph._ But then I give Victoria to his arms; And make my own destruction my own act. That fires my blood again--yet if she loves him, Is killing him she loves, the way to gain her? No, let him live--but Veramond shall die; Who, when he was my father as he thought, When I deserved his love, then hated me. _Ram._ Oh, now the tempest drives another way. [_Aside._ _Alph._ No more deliberation,--there it goes; I'll kill him first, to satisfy my vengeance, And then, to atone her anger, kill myself. [_Seems going hastily._