_Zul._ Methinks that peace of mind were bravely lost;
A crown, whate'er we give, is worth the cost.

_Abdal._ Justice distributes to each man his right;
But what she gives not, should I take by might?

_Zul._ If justice will take all, and nothing give,
Justice, methinks, is not distributive.

_Abdal._ Had fate so pleased, I had been eldest born,
And then, without a crime, the crown had worn!--

_Zul._ Would you so please, fate yet a way would find;
Man makes his fate according to his mind.
The weak low spirit, fortune makes her slave;
But she's a drudge, when hectored by the brave:
If fate weaves common thread, he'll change the doom,
And with new purple spread a nobler loom.

_Abdal._ No more!--I will usurp the royal seat;
Thou, who hast made me wicked, make me great.

_Zul._ Your way is plain: the death of Tarifa
Does on the king our Zegrys' hatred draw;
Though with our enemies in show we close,
'Tis but while we to purpose can be foes.
Selin, who heads us, would revenge his son;
But favour hinders justice to be done.
Proud Ozmyn with the king his power maintains,