And forced to countenance its own rebels' sway.

_Abdelm._ No, no; our reason was not vainly lent;
Nor is a slave, but by its own consent:
If reason on his subject's triumph wait,
An easy king deserves no better fate.

_Abdal._ You speak too late; my empire's lost too far:
I cannot fight.

_Abdelm._ Then make a flying war;
Dislodge betimes, before you are beset.

_Abdal._ Her tears, her smiles, her every look's a net.
Her voice is like a Syren's of the land;
And bloody hearts lie panting in her hand.

_Abdelm._ This do you know, and tempt the danger still?

_Abdal._ Love, like a lethargy, has seized my will.
I'm not myself, since from her sight I went;
I lean my trunk that way, and there stand bent.
As one, who, in some frightful dream, would shun
His pressing foe, labours in vain to run;
And his own slowness, in his sleep, bemoans,
With thick short sighs, weak cries, and tender groans,
So I--

_Abdelm._ Some friend, in charity, should shake,
And rouse, and call you loudly till you wake.