Alph. [To Ped.]
Mark how he sounds and fathoms him,
To find the shallows of his soul!
Bert. The just applause
Of god-like senates, is the stamp of virtue,
Which makes it pass unquestioned through the world.
These honours you deserve; nor shall my suffrage
Be last to fix them on you. If refused,
You brand us all with black ingratitude:
For times to come shall say,—Our Spain, like Rome,
Neglects her champions after noble acts,
And lets their laurels wither on their heads.
Torr. A statue, for a battle blindly fought,
Where darkness and surprise made conquest cheap!
Where virtue borrowed but the arms of chance,
And struck a random blow!—'Twas fortune's work,
And fortune take the praise.
Bert. Yet happiness
Is the first fame. Virtue without success
Is a fair picture shewn by an ill light;
But lucky men are favourites of heaven:
And whom should kings esteem above heaven's darlings?
The praises of a young and beauteous queen
Shall crown your glorious acts.
Ped. [To Alph.] There sprung the mine.
Torr. The queen! that were a happiness too great!
Named you the queen, my lord?
Bert. Yes: you have seen her, and you must confess,
A praise, a smile, a look from her is worth
The shouts of thousand amphitheatres.
She, she shall praise you, for I can oblige her:
To-morrow will deliver all her charms
394 Into my arms, and make her mine for ever.—
Why stand you mute?
Torr. Alas! I cannot speak.
Bert. Not speak, my lord! How were your thoughts employed?
Torr. Nor can I think, or I am lost in thought.