SCENE III.—­A Gallery in the Alhambra.

  ZULEMA, HAMET.

Hamet. I thought your passion for the queen was dead, Or that your love had, with your hopes, been fled.

Zul. ’Twas like a fire within a furnace pent: 
I smothered it, and kept it long from vent;
But, fed with looks, and blown with sighs so fast,
It broke a passage through my lips at last.

Hamet. Where found you confidence your suit to move?  Our broken fortunes are not fit to love.  Well; you declared your love:—­What followed then?

Zul. She looked as judges do on guilty men,
When big with fate they triumph in their dooms,
And smile before the deadly sentence comes. 
Silent I stood, as I were thunder-struck;
Condemned and executed with a look.

Hamet. You must, with haste, some remedy prepare:  Now you are in, you must break through the snare.

Zul. She said, she would my folly yet conceal; But vowed my next attempt she would reveal.

Hamet. ’Tis dark; and in this lonely gallery, Remote from noise, and shunning every eye, One hour each evening she in private mourns, And prays, and to the circle then returns.

Zul. These lighted tapers show the time is nigh.  Perhaps my courtship will not be in vain:  At least, few women will of force complain.

At the other end of the Gallery, enter ALMANZOR and ESPERANZA.

Hamet. Almanzor, and with him The favourite slave of the sultana queen.

Zul. Ere they approach, let us retire unseen,
And watch our time when they return again: 
Then force shall give, if favour does deny;
And, that once done, we’ll to the Spaniards fly.
                                           [Exeunt ZUL. and HAMET.

Almanz. Now stand; the apartment of the queen is near;
And, from this place, your voice will reach her ear.
                                                [ESPERANZA goes out.

SONG, IN TWO PARTS.

I.

He. How unhappy a lover am I,
While I sigh for my Phillis in vain;
All my hopes of delight
Are another man’s right,
Who is happy, while I am in pain!

II.

She. Since her honour allows no relief,
But to pity the pains which you bear,
’Tis the best of your fate
In a hopeless estate,
To give o’er, and betimes to despair.

III.

He. I have tried the false med’cine in vain;
For I wish what I hope not to win: 
From without, my desire
Has no food to its fire;
But it burns and consumes me within.

IV.

She. Yet, at least, ’tis a pleasure to know
That you are not unhappy alone: 
For the nymph you adore
Is as wretched, and more;
And counts all your sufferings her own.