Soliman.
Why now at last she dies.
Perseda.
O Christ, receive my soul!
Soliman.
Hark, Brusor; she calls on Christ:
I will not send her to him. Her words are music;
The selfsame music that in ancient days
Brought Alexander from war to banqueting.
And made him fall from skirmishing to kissing.
No, my dear love would not let me kill thee,
Though majesty would turn desire to wrath:
There lies my sword, humbled at thy feet;
And I myself, that govern many kings,
Entreat a pardon for my rash misdeed.
Perseda.
Now Soliman wrongs his imperial state;
But if thou love me, and have hope to win,
Grant me one boon that I shall crave of thee.
Soliman.