es might still continue bright,
But who can help it, if you'll make it night?
The Gods have given you power of life and death,
Like them to save, or ruin, with a breath.

_Cort_. That power they to your father did dispose,
'Twas in his choice to make us friends or foes.

_Alib_. Injurious strength would rapine still excuse,
By offering terms the weaker must refuse;
And such as these your hard conditions are,
You threaten peace, and you invite a war.

_Cort_. If for myself to conquer here I came,
You might perhaps my actions justly blame:
Now I am sent, and am not to dispute
My prince's orders, but to execute.

_Alib_. He, who his prince so blindly does obey,
To keep his faith his virtue throws away.

_Cort_. Monarchs may err; but should each private
breast
Judge their ill acts, they would dispute their best.

_Cyd_. Then all your care is for your prince, I see;
Your truth to him out-weighs your love to me:
You may so cruel to deny me prove,
But never after that pretend to love.

_Cort_. Command my life, and I will soon obey;
To save my honour I my blood will pay.

_Cyd_. What is this honour which does love controul?

_Cort_. A raging fit of virtue in the soul;
A painful burden which great minds must bear,
Obtained with danger, and possest with fear.

_Cyd_. Lay down that burden if it painful grow;
You'll find, without it, love will lighter go.

_Cort_. Honour, once lost, is never to be found.

_Alib_. Perhaps he looks to have both passions crowned;
First dye his honour in a purple flood,
Then court the daughter in the father's blood.

_Cort_. The edge of war I'll from the battle take,
And spare her father's subjects for her sake.

_Cyd_. I cannot love you less when I'm refused.
But I can die to be unkindly used;
Where shall a maid's distracted heart find rest.
If she can miss it in her lover's breast?

_Cort_. I till to-morrow will the fight delay;
Remember you have conquered me to-day.

_Alib_. This grant destroys all you have urged before;
Honour could not give this, or can give more.
Our women in the foremost ranks appear;
March to the fight, and meet your mistress there:
Into the thickest squadrons she must run,
Kill her, and see what honour will be won.

_Cyd_. I must he in the battle, but I'll go
With empty quiver, and unbended bow;
Not draw an arrow in this fatal strife,
For fear its point should reach your noble life.

_Enter_ PIZARRO.

_Cort_. No more: your kindness wounds me