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Confess your crime, or lead me to the Sultan; •
There dauntless truth shall blast the vile accuser;
Then shall you feel what language cannot utter,
Each piercing torture, ev'ry change of pain,
That vengeance can invent, or pow'r inflict." -
[Enter ABDALLA; he stops short and listens.


ABDALLA, aside.

All is not lost, Abdalla; see the queen,
See the last witness of thy guilt and fear
Enrob’d in death–Despatch her, and be great,

Unhappy fair! compassion calls upon me
To check this torrent of imperious rage;
While unavailing anger crowds thy tongue
With idle threats and fruitless exclamation,
The fraudful moments ply their silent wings,
And steal thy life away. Death's horrid angel
Already shakes his bloody sabre o'er thee.

*The raging Sultan burns till our return,
Curses the dull delays of ling’ring mercy,
And thinks his fatal mandates ill obey'd,

Is then your sov’reign's life so cheaply rated, .
That thus you parly with detected treason?
Should she prevail to gain the Sultan's presence,
..Soon might her tears engage a lover's credit;
- X 4 Perhaps

Perhaps her malice might transfer the charge; Perhaps her poisonous tongue might blast Abdalla.


O let me but be heard, nor fear from me
Or flights of pow'r, or projects of ambition.
My hopes, my wishes, terminate in life,
A little life, for grief, and for repentance.

ABDALLA. I mark'd her wily messenger afar, And saw him skulking in the closest walks: I guess'd her dark designs, and warn'd the Sultan, And bring her former sentence new confirm'd.


Then call it not our cruelty, nor crime;
Deem us not deaf to wo, nor blind to beauty,

That thus constrain'd we speed the stroke of death. [Beckons the Mutes.


O, name not death ! Distraction and amazement,
Horrour and agony, are in that sound !
Let me but live, heap woes on woes upon me,
Hide me with murd’rers in the dungeon's gloom,
Send me to wander on some pathless shore,
Let shame and hooting infamy pursue me,
Let slav'ry harass, and let hunger gripe.

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Could we reverse the sentence of the Sultan,
Our bleeding bosoms plead Irene's cause.


But cries and tears are vain; prepare with patience
To meet that fate we can delay no longer.
[The Mutes at the sign lay hold of her.

Despatch, ye ling ring slaves; or nimbler hands,

Quick at my call, shall execute your charge ;

Despatch, and learn a fitter time for pity.

Grant me one hour, O grant me but a moment,
And bounteous Heav'n repay the mighty mercy
With peaceful death and happiness eternal.

CARAZA. The prayer I cannot grant—I dare not hear. Short be thy pains. . . . [Signs again to the Mutes, IRENE,

Unutterable anguish Guilt and Despair, pale spectres grin around me, And stun me with the yellings of damnation O, hear my pray'rs! accept, all-pitying Heav'n, These tears, these pangs, these last remains of life; Nor let the crimes of this detested day Be chargd upon my soul. O, mercy! mercy

[Mutes force her out.

SCENE X. ABDALLA, HASAN, CARAZA. 4 ABDALLA, aside. Safe in her death, and in Demetrius's flight, Abdalla, bid thy troubled breast be calm. - Now

Now shalt thou shine the darling of the Sultan,
The plot all Cali's, the detection thine.

Does not thy bosom (for I know thee tender,
A stranger to th' oppressor's savage joy.) -
Melt at Irene's fate, and share her woes?


Her piercing cries yet fill the loaded air,
Dwell on my ear, and sadden all my soul.
But let us try to clear our clouded brows,
And tell the horrid tale with cheerful face;
The stormy Sultan rages at our stay.

Frame your report with circumspective art;
Inflame her crimes, exalt your own obedience 3.
But let no thoughtless hint involve Abdalla,

What need of caution to report the fate
Of her the Sultan's voice condemn’d to die?
Or why should he, whose violence of duty
Has serv'd his prince So well, demand our silence? .


Perhaps my zeal too fierce betray'd my prudence;
Perhaps my warmth exceeded my commission;
Perhaps—I will not stoop to plead my cause,

Or argue with the slave that sav'd Demetrius.

From his escape learn thou the pow'r of virtue;
Nor hope his fortune, while thou want'st his worth,

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The Sultan comes, still gloomy, still enraged.



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- *. MAhom ET, - Where's this fair traitress P Where's this smiling mischief, *. * * * * Whom neither vows could fix, nor favours bind?

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Thine orders, mighty Sultan are perform’d,
And all Irene now is breathless clay.

U. MAHOMET. Your hasty zeal defrauds the claim of justice, And disappointed vengeance burns in vain. I came to heighten tortures by reproach, And add new terrours to the face of death. 'Was this the maid whose love I bought with empire? True, she was fair; the smile of innocence Play'd on her cheek—So shone the first apostate— Irene's chamber! Did not roaring Cali, Just as the rack forc'd out his struggling soul, Name for the scene of death Irene's chamber?


His breath prolong d but to detect her treason,
Then in short sighs forsook his broken frame.

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