'Twas then, methought, Almeyda, smiling, came,
Attended with a train of all her race,
Whom, in the rage of empire, I had murdered:
But now, no longer foes, they gave me joy
Of my new conquest, and, with helping hands,
Heaved me into our holy prophet's arms,
Who bore me in a purple cloud to heaven[7].
_Bend._ Good omen, sir; I wish you in that heaven
Your dream portends you,--
Which presages death. [_Aside._
_Emp._ Thou too wert there;
And thou, methought, didst push me from below,
With thy full force, to Paradise.
_Bend._ Yet better.
_Emp._ Ha! what's that grizly fellow, that attends thee?
_Bend._ Why ask you, sir?
_Emp._ For he was in my dream,
And helped to heave me up.
_Bend._ With prayers and wishes;
For I dare swear him honest.
_Emp._ That may be;
But yet he looks damnation.
_Bend._ You forget
The face would please you better. Do you love,
And can you thus forbear?
_Emp._ I'll head my people,
Then think of dalliance when the danger's o'er.
My warlike spirits work now another way,
And my soul's tuned to trumpets.
_Bend._ You debase yourself,
To think of mixing with the ignoble herd;
Let such perform the servile work of war,
Such who have no Almeyda to enjoy.
What, shall the people know their god-like prince
Skulked in a nightly skirmish? Stole a conquest,
Headed a rabble, and profaned his person,
Shouldered with filth, borne in a tide of ordure,
And stifled with their rank offensive sweat?
_Emp.
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