Mont.  Excellent prince!  How great a proof of virtue have you shown, To be concerned for griefs, though not your own!

Aca.  Pray, say no more.

Enter a Messenger hastily.

Mont.  How now, whither so fast?

Mess.  O sir, I come too slow with all my haste!  The fair Orazia—­

Mont.  Ha, what dost thou say?

Mess.  Orazia with the Inca’s forced away
Out of your tent; Traxalla, in the head
Of the rude soldiers, forced the door, and led,
Those glorious captives, who on thrones once shined,
To grace the triumph, that is now designed. [Exit.

Mont.  Orazia forced away!—­what tempests roll
About my thoughts, and toss my troubled soul! 
Can there be gods to see, and suffer this? 
Or does mankind make his own fate or bliss;
While every good and bad happens by chance,
Not from their orders, but their ignorance?—­
I will pull a ruin on them all,
And turn their triumph to a funeral.

Aca.  Be temperate, friend.

Mont.  You may as well advise That I should have less love, as grow more wise.

Aca.  Yet stay—­I did not think to have revealed
A secret, which my heart has still concealed;
But, in this cause since I must share with you,
’Tis fit you know—­I love Orazia too: 
Delay not then, nor waste the time in words,
Orazia’s cause calls only for our swords.

Mont.  That ties my hand, and turns from thee that rage
Another way, thy blood should else assuage: 
The storm on our proud foes shall higher rise,
And, changing, gather blackness as it flies: 
So, when winds turn, the wandering waves obey,
And all the tempest rolls another way.

Aca.  Draw then a rival’s sword, as I draw mine. 
And, like friends suddenly to part, let’s join
 In this one act, to seek one destiny;
 Rivals with honour may together die. [Exeunt.

ACT III.  SCENE I.

ZEMPOALLA appears seated upon her Slaves in triumph, and the Indians, as to celebrate the victory, advance in a warlike dance; in the midst of which triumph, ACACIS and MONTEZUMA fall in upon them.

ZEMPOALLA descends from her triumphant throne, and ACACIS and MONTEZUMA are brought in before her.

Zemp_.  Shame of my blood, and traitor to thy own: 
Born to dishonour, not command a throne! 
Hast thou, with envious eyes, my triumph seen? 
Or couldst not see thy mother in thy queen? 
Couldst thou a stranger above me prefer?

Aca.  It was my honour made my duty err; I could not see his prisoners forced away, To whom I owed my life, and you the day.

Zemp.  Is that young man the warrior so renowned?

Mont.  Yes, he, that made thy men thrice quit their ground.  Do, smile at Montezuma’s chains; but know, His valour gave thee power to use him so.