Classic Poem

MAHOMET.
Where's this fair traitress? Where's this smiling mischief,
Whom neither vows could fix, nor favours bind?

HASAN.
Thine orders, mighty sultan, are perform'd,
And all Irene now is breathless clay.

MAHOMET.
Your hasty zeal defrauds the claim of justice,
And disappointed vengeance burns in vain.
I came to heighten tortures by reproach,
And add new terrours to the face of death.
Was this the maid, whose love I bought with empire?
True, she was fair; the smile of innocence
Play'd on her cheek--So shone the first apostate--
Irene's chamber! Did not roaring Cali,
Just as the rack forc'd out his struggling soul,
Name for the scene of death, Irene's chamber?

MUSTAPHA.
His breath prolong'd, but to detect her treason,
Then, in short sighs, forsook his broken frame.

MAHOMET.
Decreed to perish in Irene's chamber!
There had she lull'd me with endearing falsehoods,
Clasp'd in her arms, or slumb'ring on her breast,
And bar'd my bosom to the ruffian's dagger.