FATHER.

O! my child! my child!

ORAN.

Peace! she is well--Sleep folds her in his arms,
And each upheaving of his drowsy breast
Is like a billow upon pleasure's sea,
Wafting her on to far Hesperides.

FATHER.

This is no healthy sleep that wraps her now,
Else would she waken at my anxious cry;
'Tis death-sleep, wretched man.

MAURICE.

Let's bear her hence.

ROGER.

Nay! let him now unwind his magic spells,
Or fall our vengeance on his guilty head.

ORAN.

Dismiss your fears, and cease your threats. Old man,
Soon shall I prove how much you wrong my love;