Emp. Do’t;—­’tis left to thee.

Bend. Yet more;—­but clear your brow, for he observes.
                                                [They whisper again.

Dor. What, will the favourite prop my falling fortunes? 
O prodigy of court! [Aside
                                    [Emp. and BEND. return to DOR.

Emp. Your friend has fully cleared your innocence;
I was too hasty to condemn unheard,
And you, perhaps, too prompt in your replies. 
As far as fits the majesty of kings,
I ask excuse.

Dor. I’m sure I meant it well.

Emp. I know you did:—­This to our love renewed.—­    [Emp. drinks.
Benducar, fill to Dorax.     [BEND. turns, and mixes a Powder in it.

Dor. Let it go round, for all of us have need To quench our heats:  ’Tis the king’s health, Benducar, [He drinks. And I would pledge it, though I knew ’twere poison.

Bend. Another bowl; for what the king has touched,
And you have pledged, is sacred to your loves.
                                        [Drinks out of another Bowl.

Muf. Since charity becomes my calling, thus
Let me provoke your friendship; and heaven bless it,
As I intend it well. [Drinks; and, turning aside, pours some
                               drops out of a little vial into the
                               Bowl; then presents it to DORAX.

Dor. Heaven make thee honest; On that condition we shall soon be friends. [Drinks.

Muf. Yes, at our meeting in another world;
For thou hast drunk thy passport out of this. 
Not the Nonacrian font, nor Lethe’s lake,
Could sooner numb thy nimble faculties,
Than this, to sleep eternal. [Aside.

Emp. Now farewell, Dorax; this was our first quarrel,
And, I dare prophecy, will prove our last.
                                 [Exeunt Emp. BEND. and the Mufti.

Dor. It may be so.—­I’m strangely discomposed;
Quick shootings thro’ my limbs, and pricking pains,
Qualms at my heart, convulsions in my nerves,
Shiverings of cold, and burnings of my entrails,
Within my little world make medley war,
Lose and regain, beat, and are beaten back,
As momentary victors quit their ground.—­
Can it be poison!  Poison’s of one tenor,
Or hot, or cold; this neither, and yet both. 
Some deadly draught, some enemy of life,
Boils in my bowels, and works out my soul. 
Ingratitude’s the growth of every clime;
Africk, the scene removed, is Portugal. 
Of all court service, learn the common lot,—­
To-day ’tis done, to-morrow ’tis forgot. 
Oh, were that all! my honest corpse must lie
Exposed to scorn, and public infamy;
My shameful death will be divulged alone;
The worth and honour of my soul unknown. [Exit.