Fate was not mine,
Nor am I fate's. Now I have pleased my longing,
And trod the ground which I beheld from far,
I beg no pity for this mouldering clay;
For, if you give it burial, there it takes
Possession of your earth;
If burnt and scattered in the air, the winds,
That strow my dust, diffuse my royalty,
And spread me o'er your clime: for where one atom
Of mine shall light, know, there Sebastian reigns.
_M. Mol._ What shall I do to conquer thee?
_Sebast._ Impossible!
Souls know no conquerors.
_M. Mol._ I'll shew thee for a monster through my Afric.
_Sebast._ No, thou canst only shew me for a man:
Afric is stored with monsters; man's a prodigy,
Thy subjects have not seen.
_M. Mol._ Thou talk'st as if
Still at the head of battle.
_Sebast._ Thou mistakest,
For then I would not talk.
_Bend._ Sure he would sleep.
_Sebast._ Till doomsday, when the trumpet sounds to rise;
For that's a soldier's call.
_M. Mol._ Thou'rt brave too late;
Thou shouldst have died in battle, like a soldier.
_Sebast._ I fought and fell like one, but death deceived me;
I wanted weight of feeble Moors upon me,
To crush my soul out.
_M. Mol._ Still untameable!
In what a ruin has thy head-strong pride,
And boundless thirst of empire, plunged thy people!
_Sebast._ What sayst thou? ha! no more of that.
_M. Mol._ Behold,
What carcases of thine thy crimes have strewed,
And left our Afric vultures to devour.
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