_Mor._ No more--set speeches, and a formal tale, With none but statesmen and grave fools prevail. Dry up your tears, and practice every grace, That fits the pageant of your royal place. [_Exit._
_Mel._ Madam, the strange reverse of fate you see: I pitied you, now you may pity me. [_Exit after him._
_Ind._ Poor princess! thy hard fate I could bemoan, Had I not nearer sorrows of my own. Beauty is seldom fortunate, when great: A vast estate, but overcharged with debt. Like those, whom want to baseness does betray, I'm forced to flatter him, I cannot pay. O would he be content to seize the throne! I beg the life of Aureng-Zebe alone. Whom heaven would bless, from pomp it will remove, And make their wealth in privacy and love. [_Exit._
Distrust, and darkness, of a future state, Make poor mankind so fearful of their fate. Death, in itself, is nothing; but we fear, To be we know not what, we know not where. [_Soft music._ This is the ceremony of my fate: A parting treat; and I'm to die in state. They lodge me, as I were the Persian King: And with luxuriant pomp my death they bring.
_Nour._ I thought, before you drew your latest breath, To smooth your passage, and to soften death; For I would have you, when you upward move, Speak kindly of me, to our friends above: Nor name me there the occasion of our fate; Or what my interest does, impute to hate.
_Aur._ I ask not for what end your pomp's designed; Whether to insult, or to compose my mind: I marked it not; But, knowing death would soon the assault begin, Stood firm collected in my strength within: To guard that breach did all my forces guide, And left unmanned the quiet sense's side.
_Nour._ Because Morat from me his being took, All I can say will much suspected look: 'Tis little to confess, your fate I grieve; Yet more than you would easily believe.
_Aur._ Since my inevitable death you know, You safely unavailing pity shew: 'Tis popular to mourn a dying foe.
_Nour._ You made my liberty your late request; Is no return due from a grateful breast? I grow impatient, 'till I find some way, Great offices, with greater, to repay.
_Aur._ When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat; Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit; Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay: To-morrow's falser than the former day; Lies worse, and, while it says, we shall be blest With some new joys, cuts off what we possest. Strange cozenage! None would live past years again, Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain; And, from the dregs of life, think to receive, What the first sprightly running could not give. I'm tired with waiting for this chemic gold, Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.