Bend. Yet we may possibly hear farther news;
For, while our Africans pursued the chace,
The captain of the rabble issued out,
With a black shirtless train, to spoil the dead,
And seize the living.

Dor. Each of them an host,
A million strong of vermin every villain: 
No part of government, but lords of anarchy,
Chaos of power, and privileged destruction.

Bend. Yet I must tell you, friend, the great must use them Sometimes, as necessary tools of tumult.

Dor. I would use them
Like dogs in times of plague; outlaws of nature,
Fit to be shot and brained, without a process,
To stop infection; that’s their proper death.

Bend. No more;—­
Behold the emperor coming to survey
The slaves, in order to perform his vow.

  Enter MULEY-MOLUCH the Emperor, with Attendants; the Mufti, and
  MULEY-ZEYDAN.

M.  Mol. Our armours now may rust; our idle scymiters
Hang by our sides for ornament, not use: 
Children shall beat our atabals and drums,
And all the noisy trades of war no more
Shall wake the peaceful morn; the Xeriff’s blood
No longer in divided channels runs,
The younger house took end in Mahomet: 
Nor shall Sebastian’s formidable name
Be longer used to lull the crying babe.

Muf. For this victorious day, our mighty prophet
Expects your gratitude, the sacrifice
Of Christian slaves, devoted, if you won.

M.  Mol. The purple present shall be richly paid;
That vow performed, fasting shall be abolished;
None e’er served heaven well with a starved face: 
Preach abstinence no more; I tell thee, Mufti,
Good feasting is devout; and thou, our head,
Hast a religious, ruddy countenance. 
We will have learned luxury; our lean faith
Gives scandal to the christians; they feed high: 
Then look for shoals of converts, when thou hast
Reformed us into feasting.

Muf. Fasting is but the letter of the law,
Yet it shews well to preach it to the vulgar;
Wine is against our law; that’s literal too,
But not denied to kings and to their guides;
Wine is a holy liquor for the great.

Dor. [Aside.] This Mufti, in my conscience, is some English renegado, he talks so savourily of toping.

M.  Mol. Bring forth the unhappy relicks of the war.

  Enter MUSTAPHA, Captain of the Rabble, with his followers of the
  Black Guard, &c. and other Moors; With them a Company of Portuguese
  Slaves, without any of the chief Persons.

M.  Mol. These are not fit to pay an emperor’s vow; Our bulls and rams had been more noble victims:  These are but garbage, not a sacrifice.

Muf. The prophet must not pick and chuse his offerings; Now he has given the day, ’tis past recalling, And he must be content with such as these.