John Dryden

“ Our temples ruin, and our rites deface:
To them, O king, is thy lost sceptre given.
Now mourn thy fatal search, for since wise heaven
More ill than good to mortals does dispense,
It is not safe to have too quick a sense. ”

“ The ghost of the Indian Queen rises betwixt the ghosts, with a dagger in her breast.
Mont. Ha!
I feel my hair grow stiff, my eyeballs roll!
This is the only form could shake my soul.
Ghost. The hopes of thy successless love resign;
Know, Montezuma, thou art only mine;
For those, that here on earth their passion show
By death for love, receive their right below.
Why dost thou then delay my longing arms?
Have cares, and age, and mortal life such charms?
The moon grows sickly at the sight of day,
And early cocks have summoned me away ”