_Ram._ Hold, hold, Alphonso! heaven, and earth, and I, Who have a father's title to your life, Forbid that parricide. _Alph._ Would you refuse a madman leave to sleep? 'Tis sleep must cure me, and that sleep is death. _Ram._ A madman must be cooled, to make him sleep. I have prepared a gentle opiate for you; One moment's patience, and I will infuse it. You see me dispossessed of all my state? _Alph._ Yes, to my grief; and, to enhance that grief, 'Tis to my sword my father owes his ruin. _Ram._ And 'tis that only sword that can restore me. It must, and ought; you owe it to your duty. _Alph._ Duty was what Victoria urged to me: I hate that fatal word, because she used it, And, for a cruel father, left her love. _Ram._ Could she do that for Veramond, a tyrant, Which you refuse to me? The conquering troops of Arragon are yours; You are their life, their idol, and their soul. Conduct me home, and, with their aid, restore me; And, that once done, we shall not need to treat: For Veramond himself will send, and sue For that alliance, which his pride now scorns. _Alph._ Long ere that time, Victoria will be Garcia's: Her father will not lose one moment's space, To gratify his vengeance with my ruin, If I would force him, this must be the time; Which, since I now refuse, 'tis lost forever.-- Hear then, and take it as my last resolve: Lead you the troops; you need not fear their faith, The guilt of their rebellion makes them yours. With them, and with your own, restore yourself. _Ram._ Then what becomes of you? _Alph._ No matter what. Provide yourself of some more worthy heir, For I am lost, beyond redemption lost. Farewell the joys of empire, from this moment! Farewell the honours of the dusty field! Here I lay down this instrument of death, [_Ungirds his Sword, and lays it down._ And may it gird some happier soldier's side; For nothing, it could gain, can countervail To me, the loss of my Victoria's love. Your blessing, and farewell! [_Kneels._ _Ram._ Alas! I fear some fatal resolution Is harboured in your soul: If thus you leave me, My mind forebodes, we never more shall meet. _Alph._ Give not so black an omen to this parting, For we may meet again, if heaven thinks fit: A beam of comfort, like the moon through clouds, Gilds the brown horror, and directs my way.-- Blast not my purpose, by refusing leave, Nor ask the means; but know, I will not die, Till I have proved the extremest remedy. And if, unarmed, I go to tempt my fate, Think my despair is from Victoria's hate. [_Exit_ ALPHONSO.