Dor. There’s the amorous airy spark, Antonio,
The wittiest woman’s toy in Portugal: 
Lord, what a loss of treats and serenades! 
The whole she-nation will be in mourning for him.

Anton. I’ve a moist sweaty palm; the more’s my sin: 
If it be black, yet only dyed, not odious
Damned natural ebony, there’s hope, in rubbing,
To wash this Ethiop white.—­[Looks.] Pox o’the proverb! 
As black as hell;—­another lucky saying! 
I think the devil’s in me;—­good again! 
I cannot speak one syllable, but tends
To death or to damnation. [Holds up his ball.

Dor. He looks uneasy at his future journey, [Aside.
And wishes his boots off again, for fear
Of a bad road, and a worse inn at night. 
Go to bed, fool, and take secure repose,
For thou shalt wake no more. [SEBASTIAN comes up to draw.

M.  Mol. [To Ben.] Mark him, who now approaches to the lottery: 
He looks secure of death, superior greatness,
Like Jove, when he made Fate, and said, Thou art
The slave of my creation.—­I admire him.

Bend. He looks as man was made; with face erect,
That scorns his brittle corpse, and seems ashamed
He’s not all spirit; his eyes, with a dumb pride,
Accusing fortune that he fell not warm;
Yet now disdains to live. [SEBAST. draws a black.

M.  Mol. He has his wish; And I have failed of mine.

Dor. Robbed of my vengeance, by a trivial chance! [Aside.
Fine work above, that their anointed care
Should die such little death! or did his genius
Know mine the stronger daemon, feared the grapple,
And looking round him, found this nook of fate,
To skulk behind my sword?—­Shall I discover him?—­
Still he would not die mine; no thanks to my
Revenge; reserved but to more royal shambles. 
’Twere base, too, and below those vulgar souls,
That shared his danger, yet not one disclosed him,
But, struck with reverence, kept an awful silence. 
I’ll see no more of this;—­dog of a prophet! [Exit DORAX.

M.  Mol. One of these three is a whole hecatomb,
And therefore only one of them shall die: 
The rest are but mute cattle; and when death
Comes like a rushing lion, couch like spaniels,
With lolling tongues, and tremble at the paw: 
Let lots again decide it. [The Three draw again; and the
                                        Lot falls on SEBASTIAN.

Sebast. Then there’s no more to manage:  if I fall,
It shall be like myself; a setting sun
Should leave a track of glory in the skies.—­
Behold Sebastian, king of Portugal.

M.  Mol. Sebastian! ha! it must be he; no other
Could represent such suffering majesty. 
I saw him, as he terms himself, a sun
Struggling in dark eclipse, and shooting day
On either side of the black orb that veiled him.