Chris. The lords have left us, and the soldiers faint;
You are round-beset with proud fierce enemies;
Death cannot be prevented but by flight.
Ele. He shall, Christofero. I have yet left
One stratagem that, in despite of fate,
Shall turn the wheel of war about once more.
The mother-queen hath all this while sat sadly
Within our tent, expecting to whose bosom
White-winged peace and victory will fly:
Her have I us'd as a fit property
To stop this dangerous current; her have I sent,
Arm'd with love's magic, to enchant the cardinal,
And bind revenge down with resistless charms;
By this time does she hang about his neck,
And by the witchcraft of a cunning kiss
Has she disarm'd him. Hark! they sound retreat;
She has prevail'd; a woman's tongue and eye
Are weapons stronger than artillery.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Enter Cardinal, Queen-Mother, Soldiers, drums and colours.
Queen-M. By all those sighs which thou, like passionate tunes,
Hast often to my dull ears offered,
By all thy hopes to enjoy my royal bed,
By all those mourning lines which thou hast sent,
Weeping in black, to tell thy languishment;
By love's best, richest treasure, which I swear
I will bestow, and which none else shall wear,
As the most prized jewel, but thyself;
By that bright fire which, flaming through thine eyes,
From thy love-scorched bosom does arise,
I do conjure thee, let no churlish sound,
With war's lewd horror my desires confound.
Dear, dear Mendoza; thus I do entreat,
That still thou wouldst continue this retreat;
I'll hang upon thee, till I hear thee say,
Woman, prevail; or chiding, cri'st Away.
Car. Is there no trick in this, forg'd by the Moor?
Queen-M. I would the Moor's damnation were the ransom
Of all the innocent blood that has been shed
In this black day: I care not for the Moor;
Love to my kingdom's peace makes me put on
This habit of a suppliant; shall I speed?
Car. You shall, were it to have my bosom bleed;
I have no power to spare the negro's head,
When I behold the wounds which his black hand
Has given mine honour: but when I look on you,
I have no power to hate him; since your breath
Dissolves my frozen heart, being spent for him;
In you my life must drown itself or swim.
You have prevail'd: drum, swiftly hence; call back
Our fierce-pursuing troops, that run to catch
The laurel wreath of conquest: let it stand
Awhile untouch'd by any soldier's hand.
[Exit drum.