[_Exit_.
_Mont_. Orazia forced away!--what tempests roll
About my thoughts, and toss my troubled soul!
Can there be gods to see, and suffer this?
Or does mankind make his own fate or bliss;
While every good and bad happens by chance,
Not from their orders, but their ignorance?--
I will pull a ruin on them all,
And turn their triumph to a funeral.
_Aca_. Be temperate, friend.
_Mont_. You may as well advise
That I should have less love, as grow more wise.
_Aca_. Yet stay--I did not think to have revealed
A secret, which my heart has still concealed;
But, in this cause since I must share with you,
'Tis fit you know--I love Orazia too:
Delay not then, nor waste the time in words,
Orazia's cause calls only for our swords.
_Mont_. That ties my hand, and turns from thee that rage
Another way, thy blood should else assuage:
The storm on our proud foes shall higher rise,
And, changing, gather blackness as it flies:
So, when winds turn, the wandering waves obey,
And all the tempest rolls another way.
_Aca_. Draw then a rival's sword, as I draw mine.
And, like friends suddenly to part, let's join
In this one act, to seek one destiny;
Rivals with honour may together die. [_Exeunt_.
ACT III. SCENE I.
ZEMPOALLA _appears seated upon her Slaves in triumph,
and the Indians, as to celebrate the victory,
advance in a warlike dance; in the midst of which
triumph_, ACACIS _and_ MONTEZUMA _fall in upon
them_.
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