Torr. A statue, for a battle blindly fought,
Where darkness and surprise made conquest cheap! 
Where virtue borrowed but the arms of chance,
And struck a random blow!—­’Twas fortune’s work,
And fortune take the praise.

Bert. Yet happiness
Is the first fame.  Virtue without success
Is a fair picture shewn by an ill light;
But lucky men are favourites of heaven: 
And whom should kings esteem above heaven’s darlings? 
The praises of a young and beauteous queen
Shall crown your glorious acts.

Ped. [To Alph.] There sprung the mine.

Torr. The queen! that were a happiness too great!  Named you the queen, my lord?

Bert. Yes:  you have seen her, and you must confess,
A praise, a smile, a look from her is worth
The shouts of thousand amphitheatres. 
She, she shall praise you, for I can oblige her: 
To-morrow will deliver all her charms
Into my arms, and make her mine for ever.—­
Why stand you mute?

Torr. Alas!  I cannot speak.

Bert. Not speak, my lord!  How were your thoughts employed?

Torr. Nor can I think, or I am lost in thought.

Bert. Thought of the queen, perhaps?

Torr. Why, if it were, Heaven may be thought on, though too high to climb.

Bert. O, now I find where your ambition drives!  You ought not to think of her.

Torr. So I say too,
I ought not; madmen ought not to be mad;
But who can help his frenzy?

Bert. Fond young man! 
The wings of your ambition must be clipt: 
Your shame-faced virtue shunned the people’s praise,
And senate’s honours:  But ’tis well we know
What price you hold yourself at.  You have fought
With some success, and that has sealed your pardon.

Torr. Pardon from thee!—­O, give me patience, heaven!—­
Thrice vanquished Bertran, if thou dar’st, look out
Upon yon slaughtered host, that field of blood;
There seal my pardon, where thy fame was lost.

Ped. He’s ruined, past redemption!

Alph. [To TORR.] Learn respect To the first prince of the blood.

Bert. O, let him rave!  I’ll not contend with madmen.

Torr. I have done: 
I know, ’twas madness to declare this truth: 
And yet, ’twere baseness to deny my love. 
’Tis true, my hopes are vanishing as clouds;
Lighter than children’s bubbles blown by winds: 
My merit’s but the rash result of chance;
My birth unequal; all the stars against me: 
Power, promise, choice, the living and the dead;
Mankind my foes; and only love to friend: 
But such a love, kept at such awful distance,
As, what it loudly dares to tell a rival,
Shall fear to whisper there.  Queens may be loved,
And so may gods; else why are altars raised? 
Why shines the sun, but that he may be viewed? 
But, oh! when he’s too bright, if then we gaze,
’Tis but to weep, and close our eyes in darkness. [Exit.