Almah. Mark but how terribly his eyes appear! 
And yet there’s something roughly noble there,
Which, in unfashioned nature, looks divine,
And, like a gem, does in the quarry shine.
                      [ALMANZOR returns; she falls at his feet, being
                       veiled.

Almah. Turn, mighty conqueror, turn your face this way, Do not refuse to hear the wretched pray!

Almanz. What business can this woman have with me?

Almah. That of the afflicted to the Deity. 
So may your arms success in battle find;
So may the mistress of your vows be kind,
If you have any; or, if you have none,
So may your liberty be still your own!

Almanz. Yes, I will turn my face, but not my mind:  You bane and soft destruction of mankind, What would you have with me?

Almah. I beg the grace [Unveiling.
You would lay by those terrors of your face. 
Till calmness to your eyes you first restore,
I am afraid, and I can beg no more.

Almanz. [Looking fixedly on her.] Well; my fierce visage shall not murder you.  Speak quickly, woman; I have much to do.

Almah. Where should I find the heart to speak one word? 
Your voice, sir, is as killing as your sword. 
As you have left the lightning of your eye,
So would you please to lay your thunder by.

Almanz. I’m pleased and pained, since first her eyes I saw,
As I were stung with some tarantula. 
Arms, and the dusty field, I less admire,
And soften strangely in some new desire;
Honour burns in me not so fiercely bright,
But pale as fires when mastered by the light: 
Even while I speak and look, I change yet more,
And now am nothing that I was before. 
I’m numbed, and fixed, and scarce my eye-balls move: 
I fear it is the lethargy of love! 
’Tis he; I feel him now in every part: 
Like a new lord he vaunts about my heart;
Surveys, in state, each corner of my breast,
While poor fierce I, that was, am dispossessed. 
I’m bound; but I will rouse my rage again;
And, though no hope of liberty remain,
I’ll fright my keeper when I shake my chain. 
You are—­ [Angrily.

Almah. I know I am your captive, sir.

Almanz. You are—­You shall—­And I can scarce forbear—­

Almah. Alas!

Almanz. ’Tis all in vain; it will not do:  [Aside.
I cannot now a seeming anger show: 
My tongue against my heart no aid affords;
For love still rises up, and choaks my words.

Almah. In half this time a tempest would be still.

Almanz. ’Tis you have raised that tempest in my will. 
I wonnot love you; give me back my heart;
But give it, as you had it, fierce and brave. 
It was not made to be a woman’s slave,
But, lion-like, has been in desarts bred,
And, used to range, will ne’er be tamely led. 
Restore its freedom to my fettered will,
And then I shall have power to use you ill.