MUSTAPHA

Whence grows this sudden Rage thy gesture utters? These Agonies, and furious Blasphemings? Man then does show his Reason is defaced, When Rage thus shows it self with Reason graced. Horror, and Pride, in Nature opposite; The one makes Error great, the other small: Where rooted habits have no sense at all. Heli! judge not thy self with troubled mind, But show thy heart: when Passion steams breathforth, Even woes we wondered at are nothing worth. The faults of man are finite, Like his merits: His Mercies infinite that judgeth spirits. Tell me thy Errors, teach me to forgive, Which he that cannot do, knows not to live. From man, to man duties are but respects, The grounds where of are mere Humanity: Can Justice other there than Mercy be? What shall I do? Tell Me. I do not fear. Tell how. What have I to my Father done amiss? Wherein have I of Rossa ill deserved. Is it a fault to be my Father's son? " Ah foul Ambition! which, Like Water-floods " Not channel-bound, dost neighbours overrun; " And growest nothing when thy rage is done. Must Rossa's heirs out of my ashes rise? Yet Zanger! I acquit thee of my blood; For, I believe, thy heart hath no impression To ruin Mustapha for his Succession. But tell what Colours they against me use; And how my Father's love they first did wound. Good World, where it is danger to be good. Yet grudge I not power of my self to Power: This baseness only in Mankind I blame, That Indignation shoul give laws to fame. Show me the Truth. To what rules am I bound? To fly hath scorn; it argues Guiltiness, Inherits Fear, weakly abandons Friends, Gives Tyrants fame, takes Honour from distress. Death! do thy worst. Thy greatest pains have end. Oh false, and wicked colours of Desire! Eternal bondage, unto him that seeks To be possessed of all things that he likes! Shall I a Son, and Subject seem to dare, For any Selfenesse, to set Realms on fire, Which golden titles to rebellions are? Heli! even you have told me, Wealth was given The wicked, to corrupt themselves, and others: Greatness, and health, to make flesh proud, and cruel. Where, in the good, Sickness mows down desire; Death glorifies; Misfortune humbles. Since therefore Life is but the throne of Woe, Which sickness, pain, desire, and fear inherit, Ever most worth to men of weakest spirit: Shall we, to languish in this brittle Jail, Seek, by ill deeds, to shun ill destiny? And so, for toys, loose immortality? Blasphemous love! safe-conduct of the ill! What power hath given men wickedness such skill? Is it in us to rule a Sultans will? Our Gods they are, their God remains above. To think against anointed Power is death. It's rage of Folly that contends with Fate. Sedition wounds what should preserved be. Admit this true. What sacrifice prevails? Where then is Nature's place for innocence? Hath Destiny no wheels but mere Occasion? Confusion follows where Obedience leaves. And are the ways of Truth, and Honour such? Hath Fame her glorious colours out of fear? Tempt me no more. Goodwill is then a pain, When her words Beatrice the heart, and cannot enter. I constant in my counsel do remain, And more lives, for my own life will not venture. My fellows! rest. Our Alcoran does bind, That I alone should first my Father find. Heli! Farewell. All Fates are from above Chained unto humours that must rise, or fallen. Think what we will: Men do but what they shall.