_Emp._ I'll trust his preaching, while I rule his pay;
And I dare trust my Africans to hear
Whatever he dare preach.
_Dor._ You know them not.
The genius of your Moors is mutiny;
They scarcely want a guide to move their madness;
Prompt to rebel on every weak pretence;
Blustering when courted, crouching when opprest;
Wise to themselves, and fools to all the world;
Restless in change, and perjured to a proverb.
They love religion sweetened to the sense;
A good, luxurious, palatable faith.
Thus vice and godliness,--preposterous pair!--
Ride cheek by jowl, but churchmen hold the reins:
And whene'er kings would lower clergy-greatness,
They learn too late what power the preachers have,
And whose the subjects are; the Mufti knows it,
Nor dares deny what passed betwixt us two.
_Emp._ No more; whate'er he said was my command.
_Dor._ Why, then, no more, since you will hear no more;
Some kings are resolute to their own ruin.
_Emp._ Without your meddling where you are not asked,
Obey your orders, and dispatch Sebastian.
_Dor._ Trust my revenge; be sure I wish him dead.
_Emp._ What mean'st thou? What's thy wishing to my will?
Dispatch him; rid me of the man I loath.
_Dor_ I hear you, sir; I'll take my time, and do't.
_Emp._ Thy time! What's all thy time? What's thy whole life
To my one hour of ease? No more replies,
But see thou dost it; or--
_Dor.
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