_Ozm._ Arm, quickly arm; yet all, I fear, too late;
The enemy's already at the gate.

_Boab._ The Christians are dislodged; what foe is near?

_Ozm._ The Zegrys are in arms, and almost here:
The streets with torches shine, with shoutings ring,
And Prince Abdalla is proclaimed the king.
What man could do, I have already done,
But bold Almanzor fiercely leads them on.

_Aben._ The Alhambra yet is safe in my command; [_To the King._
Retreat you thither, while their shock we stand.

_Boab._ I cannot meanly for my life provide;
I'll either perish in't, or stem this tide.
To guard the palace, Ozmyn, be your care:
If they o'ercome, no sword will hurt the fair.

_Ozm._ I'll either die; or I'll make good the place.

_Abdelm._ And I with these will bold Almanzor face.
[_Exeunt all but the Ladies. An alarum within._

_Almah._ What dismal planet did my triumphs light!
Discord the day, and death does rule the night:
The noise my soul does through my senses wound.

_Lyndar._ Methinks it is a noble, sprightly sound,
The trumpet's clangor, and the clash of arms!