Fancy had done what Phyllis would not do!
Ah, cruel nymph, cease your disdain,
While, I can dream you scorn in vain,—
Asleep or waking you must ease my pain.
[After the dance, a tumultuous noise of drums and trumpets.
To them Ozmyn; his sword drawn.
Ozm. Arm, quickly arm; yet all, I fear, too late;
The enemy's already at the gate.
Boab. The Christians are dislodged; what foe is near?
Ozm. The Zegrys are in arms, and almost here:
The streets with torches shine, with shoutings ring,
And Prince Abdalla is proclaimed the king.
What man could do, I have already done,
But bold Almanzor fiercely leads them on.
Aben. The Alhambra yet is safe in my command; [To the King.
Retreat you thither, while their shock we stand.