Aca.  I’ll quench your thirst with blood, and will destroy
Myself, and, with myself, your cruel joy. 
Now, Montezuma, since Orazia dies,
I’ll fall before thee, the first sacrifice;
My title in her death shall exceed thine,
As much as, in her life, thy hopes did mine: 
And when with our mixed blood the altar’s dyed,
Then our new title let the gods decide. [Exeunt.

ACT V. SCENE I.

The Scene opens, and discovers the Temple of the Sun, all of gold, and four Priests, in habits of white and red feathers, attending by a bloody altar, as ready for sacrifice.

Then enter the Guards_, ZEMPOALLA, and TRAXALLA; Inca, ORAZIA, and MONTEZUMA,_ bound.  As soon as they are placed, the Priest sings_.

SONG.

  You to whom victory we owe,
    Whose glories rise
    By sacrifice,
   And from our fates below;
    Never did your altars shine
   Feasted with blood so near divine;
    Princes to whom we bow,
     As they to you:—­
  Thus you can ravish from a throne,
  And, by their loss of power, declare your own.

Zemp.  Now to inflict those punishments, that are
Due to the authors of invasive war;
Who, to deceive the oppressed world, like you,
Invent false quarrels to conceal the true.

Inca.  My quarrel was the same, that all the gods
Must have to thee, if there be any odds
Betwixt those titles that are bad or good,
To crowns descended, or usurped by blood:—­
Swell not with this success; ’twas not to thee,
But to this man, the gods gave victory.

Mont.  Since I must perish by my own success, Think my misfortunes more, my crimes the less; And so, forgiving, make me pleased to die, Thus punished for this guilty victory.

Inca.  Death can make virtue easy; I forgive: 
That word would prove too hard, were I to live;
The honour of a prince would then deny,
But in the grave all our distinctions die.

Mont.  Forgive me one thing yet; to say, I love,
Let it no more your scorn and anger move;
Since, dying in one flame, my ashes must
Embrace and mingle with Orazia’s dust.

Inca.  Name thy bold love no more, lest that last breath, Which should forgive, I stifle with my death.

Oraz.  Oh, my dear father!  Oh, why may not I, Since you gave life to me, for you now die?

Mont.  ’Tis I, that wrought this mischief, ought to fall
A just and willing sacrifice for all. 
Now, Zempoalla, be both just and kind,
And, in my fate, let me thy mercy find: 
Be grateful, then, and grant me that esteem,
That as alive, so dead, I may redeem.

Oraz.  O, do not for her cruel mercy move; None should ask pity but from those they love.