Mullisheg. Upon the slaughtered bodies of our foes We mount our high tribunal; and being sole, Without competitor, we now have leisure To stablish laws, first for our kingdom’s safety, The enriching of our public treasury, And last our state and pleasure; then give order That all such Christian merchants as have traffic And freedom in our country, that conceal The least part of our custom due to us, Shall forfeit ship and goods. Joffer. There are appointed Unto that purpose careful officers. Mullisheg. Those forfeitures must help to furnish up The exhausted treasure that our wars consumed: Part of such profits as accrue that way We have already tasted. Alcade. ’Tis most fit Those Christians that reap profit by our land Should contribute unto so great a loss. Mullisheg. Alcade, they shall.--But what’s the style of king, Without his pleasure? Find us concubines, The fairest Christian damsels you can hire, Or buy for gold; the loveliest of the Moors We can command, and negroes everywhere; Italians, French, and Dutch, choice Turkish girls, Must fill our Alkedavy, the great palace Where Mullisheg now deigns to keep his court. Joffer. Who else are worthy to be libertines But such as bear the sword? Mullisheg. Joffer, thou pleasest us. If kings on earth be termèd demigods, Why should we not make here terrestrial Heaven? We can, we will: our God shall be our pleasure; For so our Meccan prophet warrants us. And now the music of the drums surcease; We’ll learn to dance to the soft tunes of peace. [_Hautboys. Exeunt_. SCENE IV.--_On Board an English Ship_. _Enter_ Bess _as a_ Sea-captain, Captain Goodlack, Roughman, _and others_. Bess. Good morrow, captain. Oh, this last sea-fight Was gallantly performed! It did me good To see the Spanish carvel[2.54] vail[2.55] her top Unto my maiden flag. Where ride we now? Goodlack. Among the Islands. Bess. What coast is this we now descry from far? Goodlack. Yon fort’s called Fayal. Bess. Is that the place where Spencer’s body lies? Goodlack. Yes; in yon church he’s buried. Bess. Then know, to this place was my voyage bound, To fetch the body of my Spencer thence; In his own country to erect a tomb And lasting monument, where, when I die, In the same bed of earth my bones may lie. Then, all that love me, arm and make for shore: Yours be the spoil, he mine; I crave no more. Roughman. May that man die derided and accursed That will not follow where a woman leads. Goodlack. Roughman, you are too rash, and counsel ill. Have not the Spaniards fortified the town? In all our ging we are but sixty-five. Roughman. Come, I’ll make one.