Dor. Yes, such a one there is a captive here, And brother to the dead.

Alv. The powers above Be praised for that!  My prayers for my good master, I hope, are heard.

Seb. Thou hast a right in heaven.  But why these prayers for me?

Alv. A door is open yet for your deliverance.—­
Now you, my countrymen, and you, Almeyda,
Now all of us, and you, my all in one,
May yet be happy in that captive’s life.

Seb. We have him here an honourable hostage For terms of peace; what more he can contribute To make me blest, I know not.

Ah. Vastly more;
Almeyda may be settled in the throne,
And you review your native clime with fame. 
A firm alliance and eternal peace,
The glorious crown of honourable war,
Are all included in that prince’s life. 
Let this fair queen be given to Muley-Zeydan,
And make her love the sanction of your league.

Seb. No more of that; his life’s in my dispose, And prisoners are not to insist on terms; Or, if they were, yet he demands not these.

Alv. You should exact them.

Alm. Better may be made,
These cannot:  I abhor the tyrant’s race,—­
My parents’ murderers, my throne’s usurpers. 
But, at one blow, to cut off all dispute,
Know this, thou busy, old, officious man,—­
I am a Christian; now be wise no more;
Or, if thou wouldst be still thought wise, be silent.

Alv. O, I perceive you think your interest touched:  ’Tis what before the battle I observed; But I must speak, and will.

Seb. I pr’ythee, peace; Perhaps she thinks they are too near of blood.

Alv. I wish she may not wed to blood more near.

Seb. What if I make her mine?

Alv. Now heaven forbid!

Seb. Wish rather heaven may grant;
For, if I could deserve, I have deserved her: 
My toils, my hazards, and my subjects’ lives,
Provided she consent, may claim her love;
And, that once granted, I appeal to these,
If better I could chuse a beauteous bride.

Ant. The fairest of her sex.

Mor. The pride of nature.

Dor. He only merits her, she only him;
So paired, so suited in their minds and persons,
That they were framed the tallies for each other. 
If any alien love had interposed,
It must have been an eye-sore to beholders,
And to themselves a curse.

Alv. And to themselves The greatest curse that can be, were to join.

Seb. Did not I love thee past a change to hate, That word had been thy ruin; but no more, I charge thee, on thy life, perverse old man!

Alv. Know, sir, I would be silent if I durst: 
But if, on shipboard, I should see my friend
Grown frantic in a raging calenture,
And he, imagining vain flowery fields,
Would headlong plunge himself into the deep,—­
Should I not hold him from that mad attempt,
Till his sick fancy were by reason cured?