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And see, thro' the wan night, those buildings gleam With the last christian fires that e'er shall burn Within those circling walls.

Ay, there the Prophet has prepar'd our rest. There soon, midst heap'd-up spoils, and the wild wailings Of fetter'd beauty, in our new-won homes, We'll cast our red-flesh'd scimitars aside, And lay us down in soft and lordly sloth. Comrades, it is an animating sight. But quickly let us gain our tents.—Hush! hush! What Turk comes prowling, this way, and alone? It looks like Mahomet.

It is the sultan on his nightly rounds, Disguis'd; let us avoid him.

I'd rather cross a tiger on my way; For, as the humour hits, it may be fatal To know or not to know him. At the best We shall be deem'd but lawless stragglers here: Let us all separate and gain our tents. (Exeunt hastily, all different ways.