Of giddy crowds, as changeable as winds;
Still vehement, and still without a cause;
Servant to chance, and blowing in the tide
Of swoln success; but veering with its ebb,
It leaves the channel dry.

_Bert._ So young a stoick!

_Torr._ You wrong me, if you think I'll sell one drop
Within these veins for pageants; but, let honour
Call for my blood, and sluice it into streams:
Turn fortune loose again to my pursuit,
And let me hunt her through embattled foes,
In dusty plains, amidst the cannons' roar,
There will I be the first.

_Bert._ I'll try him farther.-- [_Aside._
Suppose the assembled states of Arragon
Decree a statue to you, thus inscribed:
"To Torrismond, who freed his native land."

_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
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.

_Bert._ Thought of the queen, perhaps?

_Torr._ Why, if it were,
Heaven may be thought on, though too high to climb.

_Bert._ O, now I find where your ambition