I not invoke thy arm, thou god of sound,-- Nor thine, nor thine,--although in all abound High powers immense. But jovial Mercury, 120 And thou, O brightest female of the sky, Thrice-modest Phoebe, you that jointly fit A worthy chastity and a most chaste wit, To you corruptless honey and pure dew Upbreathes our holy fire; words just and few, O deign to hear! if in poor wretches' cries You glory not; if drops of withered eyes Be not your sport, be just; all that I crave Is but chaste life, or an untainted grave. I can no more; yet hath my constant tongue 130 Let fall no weakness, tho' my heart were wrung With pangs worth hell; whilst great thoughts stop our tears, Sorrow unseen, unpitied, inward wears: You see now where I rest, come is my end. Cannot Heaven virtue 'gainst weak chance defend? When weakness hath out-borne what weakness can,-- What should I say?--'tis Jove's, not sin of man. --Some stratagem now! let wit's God be shown, Celestial powers by miracles are known. I have't; 'tis done.--Zanthia, prepare our bed. 140 Vangue! _Van._ Your servant. _So._ Vangue, we have perform'd Due rites unto the dead. [SOPHONISBA _presents a carouse to_ VANGUE. Now to thy lord, great Syphax, healthful cups, Which done, the king is right much welcome. _Van._ Were it as deep as thought, off it should thus. [_He drinks._ _So._ My safety with that draught. _Van._ Close the vault's mouth lest we do slip in drink. _So._ To what use, gentle negro, serves this cave, Whose mouth thus opens so familiarly, Even in the king's bedchamber? _Van._ O, my queen, 150 This vault with hideous darkness, and much length, Stretcheth beneath the earth into a grove, One league from Cirta (I am very sleepy); Through this, when Cirta hath been strong begirt, With hostile siege the king hath safely 'scaped To, to---- _So._ The wine is strong. _Van._ Strong? _So._ Zanthia! _Zan._ What means my princess? _So._ Zanthia, rest firm And silent. Help us; nay, do not dare refuse. _Zan._ The negro's dead! _So._ No, drunk. _Zan._ Alas! _So._ Too late! Her hand is fearful whose mind's desperate. 160 It is but sleepy opium he hath drunk. Help, Zanthia! [_They lay_ VANGUE _in_ SYPHAX' _bed and draw the curtains_. There lie Syphax' bride; a naked man is soon undress'd; There bide dishonoured passion. [_They knock within, forthwith_ SYPHAX _comes_. _Sy._ Way for the king!