John Dryden

“ Cort. All things are hushed, as nature's self lay dead;
The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head;
The little birds in dreams their songs repeat,
And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew sweat,
Even lust and envy sleep ”

“ Cortez at his tent door.
Indian, come forth ; your enemies are gone,
And I, who saved you from them, here alone.
Enter Orbellan, holding his face aside.
You hide your face, as you were still afraid:
Dare you not look on him who gave you aid?
Orb. Moon, slip behind some cloud, some tempest, rise,
And blow out all the stars that light the skies, To shroud my shame!
Cort. In vain you turn aside,
And hide your face; your name you cannot hide:
I know my rival and his black design.
Orb. Forgive it, as my passion's fault, not mine.
Cort. In your excuse your love does little say ”