I thought, with silence, to have scorned my doom;
But now your noble pity has o'ercome;
Which I acknowledge with my latest breath,--
The first whoe'er began a love in death.

_Benz._ to _Selin._ Alas, what aid can my weak hand afford?
You see I tremble when I touch a sword:
The brightness dazzles me, and turns my sight;
Or, if I look, 'tis but to aim less right.

_Ozm._ I'll guide the hand which must my death convey;
My leaping heart shall meet it half the way.

_Selin_ to _Benz._ Waste not the precious time in idle breath.

_Benz._ Let me resign this instrument of death.
[_Giving the sword to her father, and then pulling it back._
Ah, no! I was too hasty to resign:
'Tis in your hand more mortal than in mine.

_Enter_ HAMET.

_Hamet._ The king is from the Alhambra beaten back,
And now preparing for a new attack;
To favour which, he wills, that instantly
You reinforce him with a new supply.

_Selin_ to _Benz._ Think not, although my duty calls me hence,
That with the breach of yours I will dispense.
Ere my return, see my commands you do: