Por. That waits, sir, on your arms, and not on me. You left a conquest more than half achieved, And for whose easiness I almost grieved. Yours only the Egyptian laurels are; I bring you but the reliques of your war. The Christian princess, to receive your doom, Is from her conquered Alexandria come; Her mother, in another vessel sent, A storm surprised, nor know I the event: Both from your bounty must receive their state, Or must on your triumphant chariot wait.
Max. From me they can expect no grace, whose minds An execrable superstition blinds.
Apol. The gods, who raised you to the world's command, Require these victims from your grateful hand.
Por. To minds resolved, the threats of death are vain; They run to fires, and there enjoy their pain; Not Mucius made more haste his hand to expose To greedy flames, than their whole bodies those.
Max. How to their own destruction they are blind! Zeal is the pious madness of the mind.
Por. They all our famed philosophers defy, And would our faith by force of reason try.
Apol. I beg it, sir, by all the powers divine. That in their right this combat may be mine.
Max. It shall; and fifty doctors of our laws Be added to you, to maintain the cause.
Enter Berenice, the Empress; Valeria, daughter to the Emperor, and Erotion.
Plac. The empress and your daughter, sir, are here.