Re-enter ARIMANT, with MELESINDA; then exit. MORAT runs to MELESINDA, and embraces her.

Mor. Should I not chide you, that you chose to stay In gloomy shades, and lost a glorious day? Lost the first fruits of joy you should possess In my return, and made my triumph less?

Mel. Should I not chide, that you could stay and see Those joys, preferring public pomp to me? Through my dark cell your shouts of triumph rung: I heard with pleasure, but I thought them long.

Mor. The public will in triumphs rudely share, And kings the rudeness of their joys must bear: But I made haste to set my captive free, And thought that work was only worthy me. The fame of ancient matrons you pursue, And stand a blameless pattern to the new. I have not words to praise such acts as these: But take my heart, and mould it as you please.

Mel. A trial of your kindness I must make, Though not for mine so much as virtue's sake. The queen of Cassimere—

Mor. No more, my love; That only suit I beg you not to move. That she's in bonds for Aureng-Zebe I know, And should, by my consent, continue so; The good old man, I fear, will pity shew. My father dotes, and let him still dote on; He buys his mistress dearly, with his throne.

Mel. See her; and then be cruel if you can.

Mor. 'Tis not with me as with a private man. Such may be swayed by honour, or by love; But monarchs only by their interest move.

Mel. Heaven does a tribute for your power demand: He leaves the opprest and poor upon your hand; And those, who stewards of his pity prove, He blesses, in return, with public love: In his distress some miracle is shewn; If exiled, heaven restores him to his throne: He needs no guard, while any subject's near, Nor, like his tyrant neighbours, lives in fear: No plots the alarm to his retirement give: 'Tis all mankind's concern that he should live.

Mor. You promised friendship in your low estate, And should forget it in your better fate. Such maxims are more plausible than true; But somewhat must be given to love and you. I'll view this captive queen; to let her see, Prayers and complaints are lost on such as me.

Mel. I'll bear the news: Heaven knows how much I'm pleased, That, by my care, the afflicted may be eased.

As she is going off, enter INDAMORA.

Ind. I'll spare your pains, and venture out alone, Since you, fair princess, my protection own. But you, brave prince, a harder task must find; [To MORAT kneeling, who takes her up. In saving me, you would but half be kind. An humble suppliant at your feet I lie; You have condemned my better part to die. Without my Aureng-Zebe I cannot live; Revoke his doom, or else my sentence give.

Mel. If Melesinda in your love have part,— Which, to suspect, would break my tender heart,— If love, like mine, may for a lover plead, By the chaste pleasures of our nuptial bed, By all the interest my past sufferings make, And all I yet would suffer for your sake; By you yourself, the last and dearest tie—

Mor. You move in vain; for Aureng-Zebe must die.

Ind. Could that decree from any brother come? Nature herself is sentenced in your doom. Piety is no more, she sees her place Usurped by monsters, and a savage race. From her soft eastern climes you drive her forth, To the cold mansions of the utmost north. How can our prophet suffer you to reign, When he looks down, and sees your brother slain? Avenging furies will your life pursue: Think there's a heaven, Morat, though not for you.

Mel. Her words imprint a terror on my mind. What if this death, which is for him designed, Had been your doom, (far be that augury!) And you, not Aureng-Zebe, condemned to die? Weigh well the various turns of human fate, And seek, by mercy, to secure your state.

Ind. Had heaven the crown for Aureng-Zebe designed, Pity for you had pierced his generous mind. Pity does with a noble nature suit: A brother's life had suffered no dispute. All things have right in life; our prophet's care Commands the beings even of brutes to spare. Though interest his restraint has justified, Can life, and to a brother, be denied?

Mor. All reasons, for his safety urged, are weak: And yet, methinks, 'tis heaven to hear you speak.

Mel. 'Tis part of your own being to invade—

Mor. Nay, if she fail to move, would you persuade? [Turning to INDA. My brother does a glorious fate pursue; I envy him, that he must fall for you. He had been base, had he released his right: For such an empire none but kings should fight. If with a father he disputes this prize, My wonder ceases when I see those eyes.

Mel. And can you, then, deny those eyes you praise? Can beauty wonder, and not pity raise?

Mor. Your intercession now is needless grown; Retire, and let me speak with her alone. [MELESINDA retires, weeping, to the side of the Stage. Queen, that you may not fruitless tears employ, [Taking INDAMORA'S hand. I bring you news to fill your heart with joy: Your lover, king of all the east shall reign; For Aureng-Zebe to-morrow shall be slain.

Ind. The hopes you raised, you've blasted with a breath: [Starting back. With triumphs you began, but end with death. Did you not say my lover should be king?

Mor. I, in Morat, the best of lovers bring. For one, forsaken both of earth and heaven, Your kinder stars a nobler choice have given: My father, while I please, a king appears; His power is more declining than his years. An emperor and lover, but in shew; But you, in me, have youth and fortune too: As heaven did to your eyes, and form divine, Submit the fate of all the imperial line; So was it ordered by its wise decree, That you should find them all comprised in me.

Ind. If, sir, I seem not discomposed with rage, Feed not your fancy with a false presage. Farther to press your courtship is but vain; A cold refusal carries more disdain. Unsettled virtue stormy may appear; Honour, like mine, serenely is severe; To scorn your person, and reject your crown, Disorder not my face into a frown. [Turns from him.

Mor. Your fortune you should reverently have used: Such offers are not twice to be refused. I go to Aureng-Zebe, and am in haste For your commands; they're like to be the last.

Ind. Tell him, With my own death I would his life redeem; But less than honour both our lives esteem.

Mor. Have you no more?

Ind. What shall I do or say? He must not in this fury go away.— [Aside. Tell him, I did in vain his brother move; And yet he falsely said, he was in love: Falsely; for, had he truly loved, at least He would have given one day to my request.

Mor. A little yielding may my love advance: She darted from her eyes a sidelong glance, Just as she spoke; and, like her words, it flew: Seemed not to beg, what yet she bid me do. [Aside. A brother, madam, cannot give a day; [To her. A servant, and who hopes to merit, may.

Mel. If, sir— [Coming to him.

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.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

AURENG-ZEBE alone.

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.

To him, NOURMAHAL.

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.

Nour. 'Tis not for nothing that we life pursue; It pays our hopes with something still that's new: Each day's a mistress, unenjoyed before; Like travellers, we're pleased with seeing more. Did you but know what joys your way attend, You would not hurry to your journey's end.

Aur. I need not haste the end of life to meet; The precipice is just beneath my feet.

Nour. Think not my sense of virtue is so small: I'll rather leap down first, and break your fall. My Aureng-Zebe, (may I not call you so?) [Taking him by the hand. Behold me now no longer for your foe; I am not, cannot be your enemy: Look, is there any malice in my eye? Pray, sit.— [Both sit. That distance shews too much respect, or fear; You'll find no danger in approaching near.

Aur. Forgive the amazement of my doubtful state: This kindness from the mother of Morat! Or is't some angel, pitying what I bore, Who takes that shape, to make my wonder more?

Nour. Think me your better genius in disguise; Or any thing that more may charm your eyes. Your guardian angel never could excel In care, nor could he love his charge so well.

Aur. Whence can proceed so wonderful a change?

Nour. Can kindness to desert, like yours, be strange? Kindness by secret sympathy is tied; For noble souls in nature are allied. I saw with what a brow you braved your fate; Yet with what mildness bore your father's hate. My virtue, like a string, wound up by art To the same sound, when yours was touched, took part, At distance shook, and trembled at my heart.

Aur. I'll not complain, my father is unkind, Since so much pity from a foe I find. Just heaven reward this act!

Nour. 'Tis well the debt no payment does demand; You turn me over to another hand. But happy, happy she, And with the blessed above to be compared, Whom you yourself would, with yourself, reward: The greatest, nay, the fairest of her kind, Would envy her that bliss, which you designed.

Aur. Great princes thus, when favourites they raise, To justify their grace, their creatures praise.

Nour. As love the noblest passion we account, So to the highest object it should mount. It shews you brave when mean desires you shun; An eagle only can behold the sun: And so must you, if yet presage divine There be in dreams,—or was't a vision mine?

Aur. Of me?

Nour. And who could else employ my thought? I dreamed, your love was by love's goddess sought; Officious Cupids, hovering o'er your head, Held myrtle wreaths; beneath your feet were spread What sweets soe'er Sabean springs disclose, Our Indian jasmine, or the Syrian rose; The wanton ministers around you strove For service, and inspired their mother's love: Close by your side, and languishing, she lies, With blushing cheeks, short breath, and wishing eyes Upon your breast supinely lay her head, While on your face her famished sight she fed. Then, with a sigh, into these words she broke, (And gathered humid kisses as she spoke) Dull, and ungrateful! Must I offer love? Desired of gods, and envied even by Jove: And dost thou ignorance or fear pretend? Mean soul! and darest not gloriously offend? Then, pressing thus his hand—

Aur. I'll hear no more. [Rising up. 'Twas impious to have understood before: And I, till now, endeavoured to mistake The incestuous meaning, which too plain you make.

Nour. And why this niceness to that pleasure shewn, Where nature sums up all her joys in one; Gives all she can, and, labouring still to give, Makes it so great, we can but taste and live: So fills the senses, that the soul seems fled, And thought itself does, for the time, lie dead; Till, like a string screwed up with eager haste, It breaks, and is too exquisite to last?

Aur. Heavens! can you this, without just vengeance, hear? When will you thunder, if it now be clear? Yet her alone let not your thunder seize: I, too, deserve to die, because I please.[1]

Nour. Custom our native royalty does awe; Promiscuous love is nature's general law: For whosoever the first lovers were, Brother and sister made the second pair, And doubled, by their love, their piety.

Aur. Hence, hence, and to some barbarous climate fly, Which only brutes in human form does yield, And man grows wild in nature's common field. Who eat their parents, piety pretend;[2] Yet there no sons their sacred bed ascend. To vail great sins, a greater crime you chuse; And, in your incest, your adultery lose.

Nour. In vain this haughty fury you have shewn. How I adore a soul, so like my own! You must be mine, that you may learn to live; Know joys, which only she who loves can give. Nor think that action you upbraid, so ill; I am not changed, I love my husband still[3]; But love him as he was, when youthful grace, And the first down began to shade his face: That image does my virgin-flames renew, And all your father shines more bright in you.

Aur. In me a horror of myself you raise; Cursed by your love, and blasted by your praise. You find new ways to prosecute my fate; And your least-guilty passion was your hate.

Nour. I beg my death, if you can love deny. [Offering him a dagger.

Aur. I'll grant you nothing; no, not even to die.

Nour. Know then, you are not half so kind as I. [Stamps with her foot.

Enter Mutes, some with swords drawn, one with a cup.

You've chosen, and may now repent too late. Behold the effect of what you wished,—my hate. [Taking the cup to present him. This cup a cure for both our ills has brought; You need not fear a philtre in the draught.

Aur. All must be poison which can come from thee; [Receiving it from her. But this the least. To immortal liberty This first I pour, like dying Socrates; [Spilling a little of it. Grim though he be, death pleases, when he frees.

As he is going to drink, Enter MORAT attended.

Mor. Make not such haste, you must my leisure stay; Your fate's deferred, you shall not die to-day. [Taking the cup from him.

Nour. What foolish pity has possessed your mind, To alter what your prudence once designed?

Mor. What if I please to lengthen out his date A day, and take a pride to cozen fate?

Nour. 'Twill not be safe to let him live an hour.

Mor. I'll do't, to show my arbitrary power.

Nour. Fortune may take him from your hands again, And you repent the occasion lost in vain.

Mor. I smile at what your female fear foresees; I'm in fate's place, and dictate her decrees.— Let Arimant be called. [Exit one of his Attendants.

Aur. Give me the poison, and I'll end your strife; I hate to keep a poor precarious life. Would I my safety on base terms receive, Know, sir, I could have lived without your leave. But those I could accuse, I can forgive; By my disdainful silence, let them live.

Nour. What am I, that you dare to bind my hand? [To MORAT. So low, I've not a murder at command! Can you not one poor life to her afford, Her, who gave up whole nations to your sword? And from the abundance of whose soul and heat, The o'erflowing served to make your mind so great?

Mor. What did that greatness in a woman's mind? Ill lodged, and weak to act what it designed? Pleasure's your portion, and your slothful ease: When man's at leisure, study how to please, Soften his angry hours with servile care, And, when he calls, the ready feast prepare.

From wars, and from affairs of state abstain; Women emasculate a monarch's reign; And murmuring crowds, who see them shine with gold, That pomp, as their own ravished spoils, behold.

Nour. Rage choaks my words: 'Tis womanly to weep: [Aside. In my swollen breast my close revenge I'll keep; I'll watch his tenderest part, and there strike deep. [Exit.

Aur. Your strange proceeding does my wonder move; Yet seems not to express a brother's love. Say, to what cause my rescued life I owe.

Mor. If what you ask would please, you should not know. But since that knowledge, more than death, will grieve, Know, Indamora gained you this reprieve.

Aur. And whence had she the power to work your change?

Mor. The power of beauty is not new or strange. Should she command me more, I could obey; But her request was bounded with a day. Take that; and, if you spare my farther crime, Be kind, and grieve to death against your time.

Enter ARIMANT.

Remove this prisoner to some safer place: He has, for Indamora's sake, found grace; And from my mother's rage must guarded be, Till you receive a new command from me.

Arim. Thus love, and fortune, persecute me still, And make me slave to every rival's will. [Aside.

Aur. How I disdain a life, which I must buy With your contempt, and her inconstancy! For a few hours my whole content I pay: You shall not force on me another day. [Exit with ARI.

Enter MELESINDA.

Mel. I have been seeking you this hour's long space, And feared to find you in another place; But since you're here, my jealousy grows less: You will be kind to my unworthiness. What shall I say? I love to that degree, Each glance another way is robbed from me. Absence, and prisons, I could bear again; But sink, and die, beneath your least disdain.

Mor. Why do you give your mind this needless care, And for yourself, and me, new pains prepare? I ne'er approved this passion in excess: If you would show your love, distrust me less. I hate to be pursued from place to place; Meet, at each turn, a stale domestic face. The approach of jealousy love cannot bear; He's wild, and soon on wing, if watchful eyes come near.

Mel. From your loved presence how can I depart? My eyes pursue the object of my heart.

Mor. You talk as if it were our bridal night: Fondness is still the effect of new delight, And marriage but the pleasure of a day: The metal's base, the gilding worn away.

Mel. I fear I'm guilty of some great offence, And that has bred this cold indifference.

Mor. The greatest in the world to flesh and blood: You fondly love much longer than you should.

Mel. If that be all which makes your discontent, Of such a crime I never can repent.

Mor. Would you force love upon me, which I shun? And bring coarse fare, when appetite is gone?

Mel. Why did I not in prison die, before My fatal freedom made me suffer more? I had been pleased to think I died for you, And doubly pleased, because you then were true: Then I had hope; but now, alas! have none.

Mor. You say you love me; let that love be shown. 'Tis in your power to make my happiness.

Mel. Speak quickly! To command me is to bless.

Mor. To Indamora you my suit must move: You'll sure speak kindly of the man you love.

Mel. Oh, rather let me perish by your hand, Than break my heart, by this unkind command! Think, 'tis the only one I could deny; And that 'tis harder to refuse, than die. Try, if you please, my rival's heart to win; I'll bear the pain, but not promote the sin. You own whate'er perfections man can boast, And, if she view you with my eyes, she's lost.

Mor. Here I renounce all love, all nuptial ties: Henceforward live a stranger to my eyes: When I appear, see you avoid the place, And haunt me not with that unlucky face.

Mel. Hard as it is, I this command obey, And haste, while I have life, to go away: In pity stay some hours, till I am dead, That blameless you may court my rival's bed. My hated face I'll not presume to show; Yet I may watch your steps where'er you go. Unseen, I'll gaze; and, with my latest breath, Bless, while I die, the author of my death. [Weeping.

Enter Emperor.

Emp. When your triumphant fortune high appears, What cause can draw these unbecoming tears? Let cheerfulness on happy fortune wait, And give not thus the counter-time to fate.

Mel. Fortune long frowned, and has but lately smiled: I doubt a foe so newly reconciled. You saw but sorrow in its waning form, A working sea remaining from a storm; When the now weary waves roll o'er the deep, And faintly murmur ere they fall asleep.

Emp. Your inward griefs you smother in your mind; But fame's loud voice proclaims your lord unkind.

Mor. Let fame be busy, where she has to do; Tell of fought fields, and every pompous show. Those tales are fit to fill the people's ears; Monarchs, unquestioned, move in higher spheres.

Mel. Believe not rumour, but yourself; and see The kindness 'twixt my plighted lord and me. [Kissing MORAT. This is our state; thus happily we live; These are the quarrels which we take and give. I had no other way to force a kiss. [Aside to MORAT. Forgive my last farewell to you and bliss. [Exit.

Emp. Your haughty carriage shows too much of scorn, And love, like hers, deserves not that return.

Mor. You'll please to leave me judge of what I do, And not examine by the outward show. Your usage of my mother might be good: I judged it not.

Emp. Nor was it fit you should.

Mor. Then, in as equal balance weigh my deeds.

Emp. My right, and my authority, exceeds. Suppose (what I'll not grant) injustice done; Is judging me the duty of a son?

Mor. Not of a son, but of an emperor: You cancelled duty when you gave me power. If your own actions on your will you ground, Mine shall hereafter know no other bound. What meant you when you called me to a throne? Was it to please me with a name alone?

Emp. 'Twas that I thought your gratitude would know What to my partial kindness you did owe; That what your birth did to your claim deny, Your merit of obedience might supply.

Mor. To your own thoughts such hope you might propose; But I took empire not on terms like those. Of business you complained; now take your ease; Enjoy whate'er decrepid age can please; Eat, sleep, and tell long tales of what you were In flower of youth,—if any one will hear.

Emp. Power, like new wine, does your weak brain surprise, And its mad fumes, in hot discourses, rise: But time these giddy vapours will remove; Meanwhile, I'll taste the sober joys of love.

Mor. You cannot love nor pleasures take, or give; But life begin, when 'tis too late to live. On a tired courser you pursue delight, Let slip your morning, and set out at night. If you have lived, take thankfully the past; Make, as you can, the sweet remembrance last. If you have not enjoyed what youth could give, But life sunk through you, like a leaky sieve, Accuse yourself, you lived not while you might; But, in the captive queen resign your right. I've now resolved to fill your useless place; I'll take that post, to cover your disgrace, And love her, for the honour of my race.

Emp. Thou dost but try how far I can forbear, Nor art that monster, which thou wouldst appear; But do not wantonly my passion move; I pardon nothing that relates to love. My fury does, like jealous forts, pursue With death, even strangers who but come to view.

Mor. I did not only view, but will invade. Could you shed venom from your reverend shade, Like trees, beneath whose arms 'tis death to sleep; Did rolling thunder your fenced fortress keep, Thence would I snatch my Semele, like Jove, And 'midst the dreadful wrack enjoy my love.

Emp. Have I for this, ungrateful as thou art! When right, when nature, struggled in my heart; When heaven called on me for thy brother's claim, Broke all, and sullied my unspotted fame? Wert thou to empire, by my baseness, brought, And wouldst thou ravish what so dear I bought? Dear! for my conscience and its peace I gave;— Why was my reason made my passion's slave? I see heaven's justice; thus the powers divine Pay crimes with crimes, and punish mine by thine.

Mor. Crimes let them pay, and punish as they please; What power makes mine, by power I mean to seize. Since 'tis to that they their own greatness owe Above, why should they question mine below? [Exit.

Emp. Prudence, thou vainly in our youth art sought, And, with age purchased, art too dearly bought: We're past the use of wit, for which we toil; Late fruit, and planted in too cold a soil. My stock of fame is lavished and decayed; No profit of the vast profusion made. Too late my folly I repent; I know My Aureng-Zebe would ne'er have used me so. But, by his ruin, I prepared my own; And, like a naked tree, my shelter gone, To winds and winter-storms must stand exposed alone. [Exit.

Enter AURENG-ZEBE and ARIMANT.

Arim. Give me not thanks, which I will ne'er deserve; But know, 'tis for a noble price I serve. By Indamora's will you're hither brought: All my reward in her command I sought. The rest your letter tells you.—See, like light, She comes, and I must vanish, like the night. [Exit.

Enter INDAMORA.

Ind. 'Tis now, that I begin to live again; Heavens, I forgive you all my fear and pain: Since I behold my Aureng-Zebe appear, I could not buy him at a price too dear. His name alone afforded me relief, Repeated as a charm to cure my grief. I that loved name did, as some god, invoke, And printed kisses on it, while I spoke.

Aur. Short ease, but long, long pains from you I find; Health, to my eyes; but poison, to my mind. Why are you made so excellently fair? So much above what other beauties are, That, even in cursing, you new form my breath; And make me bless those eyes which give me death!

Ind. What reason for your curses can you find? My eyes your conquest, not your death, designed. If they offend, 'tis that they are too kind.

Aur. The ruins they have wrought, you will not see; Too kind they are, indeed, but not to me.

Ind. Think you, base interest souls like mine can sway? Or that, for greatness, I can love betray? No, Aureng-Zebe, you merit all my heart, And I'm too noble but to give a part. Your father, and an empire! Am I known No more? Or have so weak a judgment shown, In chusing you, to change you for a throne?

Aur. How, with a truth, you would a falsehood blind! 'Tis not my father's love you have designed; Your choice is fix'd where youth and power are join'd.

Ind. Where youth and power are joined!—has he a name?

Aur. You would be told; you glory in your shame: There's music in the sound; and, to provoke Your pleasure more, by me it must be spoke. Then, then it ravishes, when your pleased ear The sound does from a wretched rival hear. Morat's the name your heart leaps up to meet, While Aureng-Zebe lies dying at your feet.

Ind. Who told you this?

Aur. Are you so lost to shame? Morat, Morat, Morat! You love the name So well, your every question ends in that; You force me still to answer you, Morat. Morat, who best could tell what you revealed; Morat, too proud to keep his joy concealed.

Ind. Howe'er unjust your jealousy appear, It shows the loss of what you love, you fear; And does my pity, not my anger move: I'll fond it, as the forward child of love. To show the truth of my unaltered breast, Know, that your life was given at my request, At least reprieved. When heaven denied you aid, She brought it, she, whose falsehood you upbraid.

Aur. And 'tis by that you would your falsehood hide? Had you not asked, how happy had I died! Accurst reprieve! not to prolong my breath; It brought a lingering, and more painful death, I have not lived since first I heard the news; The gift the guilty giver does accuse. You knew the price, and the request did move, That you might pay the ransom with your love.

Ind. Your accusation must, I see, take place;— And am I guilty, infamous, and base?

Aur. If you are false, those epithets are small; You're then the things, the abstract of them all. And you are false: You promised him your love,— No other price a heart so hard could move. Do not I know him? Could his brutal mind Be wrought upon? Could he be just, or kind? Insultingly, he made your love his boast; Gave me my life, and told me what it cost. Speak; answer. I would fain yet think you true: Lie; and I'll not believe myself, but you. Tell me you love; I'll pardon the deceit, And, to be fooled, myself assist the cheat.

Ind. No; 'tis too late; I have no more to say: If you'll believe I have been false, you may.

Aur. I would not; but your crimes too plain appear: Nay, even that I should think you true, you fear. Did I not tell you, I would be deceived?

Ind. I'm not concerned to have my truth believed. You would be cozened! would assist the cheat! But I'm too plain to join in the deceit: I'm pleased you think me false, And, whatsoe'er my letter did pretend, I made this meeting for no other end.

Aur. Kill me not quite, with this indifference! When you are guiltless, boast not an offence. I know you better than yourself you know: Your heart was true, but did some frailty shew: You promised him your love, that I might live; But promised what you never meant to give. Speak, was't not so? confess; I can forgive.

Ind. Forgive! what dull excuses you prepare, As if your thoughts of me were worth my care!

Aur. Ah traitress! Ah ingrate! Ah faithless mind! Ah sex, invented first to damn mankind! Nature took care to dress you up for sin; Adorned, without; unfinished left, within. Hence, by no judgment you your loves direct; Talk much, ne'er think, and still the wrong affect. So much self-love in your composure's mixed, That love to others still remains unfixed: Greatness, and noise, and shew, are your delight; Yet wise men love you, in their own despite: And finding in their native wit no ease, Are forced to put your folly on, to please.

Ind. Now you shall know what cause you have to rage; But to increase your fury, not assuage: I found the way your brother's heart to move. Yet promised not the least return of love. His pride and brutal fierceness I abhor; But scorn your mean suspicions of me more. I owed my honour and my fame this care: Know what your folly lost you, and despair. [Turning from him.

Aur. Too cruelly your innocence you tell: Shew heaven, and damn me to the pit of hell. Now I believe you; 'tis not yet too late: You may forgive, and put a stop to fate; Save me, just sinking, and no more to rise. [She frowns. How can you look with such relentless eyes? Or let your mind by penitence be moved, Or I'm resolved to think you never loved. You are not cleared, unless you mercy speak: I'll think you took the occasion thus to break.

Ind. Small jealousies, 'tis true, inflame desire; Too great, not fan, but quite blow out the fire: Yet I did love you, till such pains I bore, That I dare trust myself and you no more. Let me not love you; but here end my pain: Distrust may make me wretched once again. Now, with full sails, into the port I move, And safely can unlade my breast of love; Quiet, and calm: Why should I then go back, To tempt the second hazard of a wreck?

Aur. Behold these dying eyes, see their submissive awe; These tears, which fear of death could never draw: Heard you that sigh? from my heaved heart it past, And said,—"If you forgive not, 'tis my last." Love mounts, and rolls about my stormy mind, Like fire, that's borne by a tempestuous wind. Oh, I could stifle you, with eager haste! Devour your kisses with my hungry taste! Rush on you! eat you! wander o'er each part, Raving with pleasure, snatch you to my heart! Then hold you off, and gaze! then, with new rage, Invade you, till my conscious limbs presage Torrents of joy, which all their banks o'erflow! So lost, so blest, as I but then could know!

Ind. Be no more jealous! [Giving him her hand.

Aur. Give me cause no more: The danger's greater after, than before; If I relapse, to cure my jealousy, Let me (for that's the easiest parting) die.

Ind. My life!

Aur. My soul!

Ind. My all that heaven can give! Death's life with you; without you, death to live.

To them, ARIMANT, hastily.

Arim. Oh, we are lost, beyond all human aid! The citadel is to Morat betrayed. The traitor, and the treason, known too late; The false Abas delivered up the gate: Even while I speak, we're compassed round with fate. The valiant cannot fight, or coward fly; But both in undistinguished crowds must die.

Aur. Then my prophetic fears are come to pass: Morat was always bloody; now, he's base: And has so far in usurpation gone, He will by parricide secure the throne.

To them, the Emperor.

Emp. Am I forsaken, and betrayed, by all? Not one brave man dare, with a monarch, fall? Then, welcome death, to cover my disgrace! I would not live to reign o'er such a race. My Aureng-Zebe! [Seeing AURENG-ZEBE. But thou no more art mine; my cruelty Has quite destroyed the right I had in thee. I have been base, Base even to him from whom I did receive All that a son could to a parent give: Behold me punished in the self-same kind; The ungrateful does a more ungrateful find.

Aur. Accuse yourself no more; you could not be Ungrateful; could commit no crime to me. I only mourn my yet uncancelled score: You put me past the power of paying more. That, that's my grief, that I can only grieve, And bring but pity, where I would relieve; For had I yet ten thousand lives to pay, The mighty sum should go no other way.

Emp. Can you forgive me? 'tis not fit you should. Why will you be so excellently good? 'Twill stick too black a brand upon my name: The sword is needless; I shall die with shame. What had my age to do with love's delight, Shut out from all enjoyments but the sight?

Arim. Sir, you forget the danger's imminent: This minute is not for excuses lent.

Emp. Disturb me not;— How can my latest hour be better spent? To reconcile myself to him is more, Than to regain all I possessed before. Empire and life are now not worth a prayer; His love, alone, deserves my dying care.

Aur. Fighting for you, my death will glorious be.

Ind. Seek to preserve yourself, and live for me.

Arim. Lose then no farther time. Heaven has inspired me with a sudden thought, Whence your unhoped for safety may be wrought, Though with the hazard of my blood 'tis bought. But since my life can ne'er be fortunate, 'Tis so much sorrow well redeemed from fate. You, madam, must retire, (Your beauty is its own security,) And leave the conduct of the rest to me. Glory will crown my life, if I succeed; If not, she may afford to love me dead. [Aside.

Aur. My father's kind, and, madam, you forgive; Were heaven so pleased, I now could wish to live. And I shall live. With glory and with love, at once, I burn: I feel the inspiring heat, and absent god return. [Exeunt.

ACT V. SCENE I.

INDAMORA alone.

Ind. The night seems doubled with the fear she brings, And o'er the citadel new-spreads her wings. The morning, as mistaken, turns about, And all her early fires again go out. Shouts, cries, and groans, first pierce my ears, and then A flash of lightning draws the guilty scene, And shows me arms, and wounds, and dying men. Ah, should my Aureng-Zebe be fighting there, And envious winds, distinguished to my ear, His dying groans and his last accents bear!

To her, MORAT, attended.

Mor. The bloody business of the night is done, And, in the citadel, an empire won. Our swords so wholly did the fates employ, That they, at length, grew weary to destroy, Refused the work we brought, and, out of breath, Made sorrow and despair attend for death. But what of all my conquest can I boast? My haughty pride, before your eyes, is lost: And victory but gains me to present That homage, which our eastern world has sent.

Ind. Your victory, alas, begets my fears: Can you not then triumph without my tears? Resolve me; (for you know my destiny Is Aureng-Zebes) say, do I live or die?

Mor. Urged by my love, by hope of empire fired, 'Tis true, I have performed what both required: What fate decreed; for when great souls are given, They bear the marks of sovereignty from heaven. My elder brothers my fore-runners came; Rough-draughts of nature, ill designed, and lame: Blown off, like blossoms never made to bear; Till I came, finished, her last-laboured care.

Ind. This prologue leads to your succeeding sin: Blood ended what ambition did begin.

Mor. 'Twas rumour'd,—but by whom I cannot tell,— My father 'scaped from out the citadel; My brother too may live.

Ind. He may?

Mor. He must: I kill'd him not: and a less fate's unjust. Heaven owes it me, that I may fill his room, A phoenix-lover, rising from his tomb; In whom you'll lose your sorrows for the dead; More warm, more fierce, and fitter for your bed.

Ind. Should I from Aureng-Zebe my heart divide, To love a monster, and a parricide? These names your swelling titles cannot hide. Severe decrees may keep our tongues in awe; But to our thoughts, what edict can give law? Even you yourself, to your own breast, shall tell Your crimes; and your own conscience be your hell.

Mor. What business has my conscience with a crown? She sinks in pleasures, and in bowls will drown. If mirth should fail, I'll busy her with cares, Silence her clamorous voice with louder wars: Trumpets and drums shall fright her from the throne, As sounding cymbals aid the labouring moon.

Ind. Repelled by these, more eager she will grow, Spring back more strongly than a Scythian bow. Amidst your train, this unseen judge will wait; Examine how you came by all your state; Upbraid your impious pomp; and, in your ear, Will hollow,—"Rebel, tyrant, murderer!" Your ill-got power wan looks and care shall bring, Known but by discontent to be a king. Of crowds afraid, yet anxious when alone, You'll sit and brood your sorrows on a throne.

Mor. Birth-right's a vulgar road to kingly sway; 'Tis every dull-got elder brother's way. Dropt from above, he lights into a throne; Grows of a piece with that he sits upon; Heaven's choice, a low, inglorious, rightful drone. But who by force a sceptre does obtain, Shows he can govern that, which he could gain. Right comes of course, whate'er he was before; Murder and usurpation are no more.

Ind. By your own laws you such dominion make, As every stronger power has right to take: And parricide will so deform your name, That dispossessing you will give a claim. Who next usurps, will a just prince appear, So much your ruin will his reign endear.

Mor. I without guilt would mount the royal seat; But yet 'tis necessary to be great.

Ind. All greatness is in virtue understood: 'Tis only necessary to be good. Tell me, what is't at which great spirits aim, What most yourself desire?

Mor. Renown and fame, And power, as uncontrouled as is my will.

Ind. How you confound desires of good and ill. For true renown is still with virtue joined; But lust of power lets loose the unbridled mind. Yours is a soul irregularly great, Which, wanting temper, yet abounds with heat, So strong, yet so unequal pulses beat; A sun, which does, through vapours, dimly shine; What pity 'tis, you are not all divine! New moulded, thorough lightened, and a breast So pure, to bear the last severest test; Fit to command an empire you should gain By virtue, and without a blush to reign.

Mor. You show me somewhat I ne'er learnt before; But 'tis the distant prospect of a shore, Doubtful in mists; which, like enchanted ground, Flies from my sight, before 'tis fully found.

Ind. Dare to be great, without a guilty crown; View it, and lay the bright temptation down: 'Tis base to seize on all, because you may; That's empire, that, which I can give away: There's joy when to wild will you laws prescribe, When you bid fortune carry back her bribe: A joy, which none but greatest minds can taste; A fame, which will to endless ages last.

Mor. Renown, and fame, in vain, I courted long, And still pursued them, though directed wrong. In hazard, and in toils, I heard they lay; Sailed farther than the coast, but missed my way: Now you have given me virtue for my guide; And, with true honour, ballasted my pride. Unjust dominion I no more pursue; I quit all other claims, but those to you.

Ind. Oh be not just by halves! pay all you owe: Think there's a debt to Melesinda too. To leave no blemish on your after-life, Reward the virtue of a suffering wife.

Mor. To love, once past, I cannot backward move; Call yesterday again, and I may love. 'Twas not for nothing I the crown resigned; I still must own a mercenary mind; I, in this venture, double gains pursue, And laid out all my stock, to purchase you.

To them, ASAPH CHAN.

Now, what success? does Aureng-Zebe yet live?

Asaph. Fortune has given you all that she can give. Your brother—

Mor. Hold; thou showest an impious joy, And think'st I still take pleasure to destroy: Know, I am changed, and would not have him slain.

Asaph. 'Tis past; and you desire his life in vain. He, prodigal of soul, rushed on the stroke Of lifted weapons, and did wounds provoke: In scorn of night, he would not be concealed; His soldiers, where he fought, his name revealed. In thickest crowds, still Aureng-Zebe did sound; The vaulted roofs did Aureng-Zebe rebound; Till late, and in his fall, the name was drowned.

Ind. Wither that hand which brought him to his fate, And blasted be the tongue which did relate!

Asaph. His body—

Mor. Cease to enhance her misery: Pity the queen, and show respect to me. 'Tis every painter's art to hide from sight, And cast in shades, what, seen, would not delight.— Your grief in me such sympathy has bred, [To her. I mourn, and wish I could recal the dead. Love softens me; and blows up fires, which pass Through my tough heart, and melt the stubborn mass.

Ind. Break, heart; or choak, with sobs, my hated breath! Do thy own work: admit no foreign death. Alas! why do I make this useless moan? I'm dead already, for my soul is gone.

To them, MIR BABA.

Mir. What tongue the terror of this night can tell, Within, without, and round the citadel! A new-formed faction does your power oppose; The fight's confused, and all who meet are foes: A second clamour, from the town, we hear; And the far noise so loud, it drowns the near. Abas, who seemed our friend, is either fled, Or, what we fear, our enemies does head: Your frighted soldiers scarce their ground maintain.

Mor. I thank their fury; we shall fight again: They rouse my rage; I'm eager to subdue: 'Tis fatal to with-hold my eyes from you. [Exit with the two Omrahs.

Enter MELESINDA.

Mel. Can misery no place of safety know? The noise pursues me wheresoe'er I go, As fate sought only me, and, where I fled, Aimed all its darts at my devoted head. And let it; I am now past care of life; The last of women; an abandoned wife.

Ind. Whether design or chance has brought you here, I stand obliged to fortune, or to fear: Weak women should, in danger, herd like deer. But say, from whence this new combustion springs? Are there yet more Morats? more fighting kings?

Mel. Him from his mother's love your eyes divide, And now her arms the cruel strife decide.

Ind. What strange misfortunes my vext life attend! Death will be kind, and all my sorrows end. If Nourmahal prevail, I know my fate.

Mel. I pity, as my own, your hard estate: But what can my weak charity afford? I have no longer interest in my lord: Nor in his mother, he: she owns her hate Aloud, and would herself usurp the state.

Ind. I'm stupified with sorrow, past relief Of tears; parched up, and withered with my grief.

Mel. Dry mourning will decays more deadly bring, As a north wind burns a too forward spring. Give sorrow vent, and let the sluices go.

Ind. My tears are all congealed, and will not flow.

Mel. Have comfort; yield not to the blows of fate.

Ind. Comfort, like cordials after death, comes late. Name not so vain a word; my hopes are fled: Think your Morat were kind, and think him dead.

Mel. I can no more— Can no more arguments, for comfort, find: Your boding words have quite o'erwhelmed my mind. [Clattering of weapons within.

Ind. The noise increases, as the billows roar, When rolling from afar they threat the shore. She comes; and feeble nature now, I find, Shrinks back in danger, and forsakes my mind. I wish to die, yet dare not death endure; Detest the medicine, yet desire the cure. I would have death; but mild, and at command: I dare not trust him in another's hand. In Nourmahal's, he would not mine appear; But armed with terror, and disguised with fear.

Mel. Beyond this place you can have no retreat: Stay here, and I the danger will repeat. I fear not death, because my life I hate; And envious death will shun the unfortunate.

Ind. You must not venture.

Mel. Let me: I may do Myself a kindness, in obliging you. In your loved name, I'll seek my angry lord; And beg your safety from his conquering sword: So his protection all your fears will ease, And I shall see him once, and not displease. [Exit.

Ind. O wretched queen! what power thy life can save? A stranger, and unfriended, and a slave!

Enter NOURMAHAL, ZAYDA, and ABAS, with Soldiers.

Alas, she's here! [INDAMORA retires.

Nour. Heartless they fought, and quitted soon their ground, While ours with easy victory were crowned. To you, Abas, my life and empire too, And, what's yet dearer, my revenge, I owe.

Abas. The vain Morat, by his own rashness wrought, Too soon discovered his ambitious thought; Believed me his, because I spoke him fair, And pitched his head into the ready snare: Hence 'twas I did his troops at first admit; But such, whose numbers could no fears beget: By them the emperor's party first I slew, Then turned my arms the victors to subdue.

Nour. Now let the head-strong boy my will controul! Virtue's no slave of man; no sex confines the soul: I, for myself, the imperial seat will gain, And he shall wait my leisure for his reign.— But Aureng-Zebe is no where to be found, And now, perhaps, in death's cold arms he lies! I fought, and conquered, yet have lost the prize.

Zayd. The chance of war determined well the strife, That racked you, 'twixt the lover and the wife. He's dead, whose love had sullied all your reign, And made you empress of the world in vain.

Nour. No; I my power and pleasure would divide: The drudge had quenched my flames, and then had died. I rage, to think without that bliss I live, That I could wish what fortune would not give: But, what love cannot, vengeance must supply; She, who bereaved me of his heart, shall die.

Zayd. I'll search: far distant hence she cannot be. [Goes in.

Nour. This wondrous master-piece I fain would see; This fatal Helen, who can wars inspire, Make kings her slaves, and set the world on fire. My husband locked his jewel from my view; Or durst not set the false one by the true.

Re-enter ZAYDA, leading INDAMORA.

Zayd. Your frighted captive, ere she dies, receive; Her soul's just going else, without your leave.

Nour. A fairer creature did my eyes ne'er see! Sure she was formed by heaven, in spite to me! Some angel copied, while I slept, each grace, And moulded every feature from my face. Such majesty does from her forehead rise, Her cheeks such blushes cast, such rays her eyes, Nor I, nor envy, can a blemish find.— The palace is, without, too well designed: Conduct me in, for I will view thy mind. [To her. Speak, if thou hast a soul, that I may see, If heaven can make, throughout, another me.

Ind. My tears and miseries must plead my cause; [Kneeling. My words, the terror of your presence awes: Mortals, in sight of angels, mute become; The nobler nature strikes the inferior dumb.

Nour. The palm is, by the foe's confession, mine; But I disdain what basely you resign. Heaven did, by me, the outward model build; Its inward work, the soul, with rubbish filled. Yet, oh! the imperfect piece moves more delight; 'Tis gilded o'er with youth, to catch the sight. The gods have poorly robbed my virgin bloom, And what I am, by what I was, o'ercome. Traitress! restore my beauty and my charms, Nor steal my conquest with my proper arms.

Ind. What have I done thus to inflame your hate? I am not guilty, but unfortunate.

Nour. Not guilty, when thy looks my power betray, Seduce mankind, my subject, from my sway, Take all my hearts and all my eyes away? My husband first; but that I could forgive; He only moved, and talked, but did not live. My Aureng-Zebe!—for I dare own the name, The glorious sin, and the more glorious flame,— Him from my beauty have thy eyes misled, And starved the joys of my expected bed.

Ind. His love so sought, he's happy that he's dead. O had I courage but to meet my fate, That short dark passage to a future state, That melancholy riddle of a breath!

Nour. That something, or that nothing, after death: Take this, and teach thyself. [Giving a Dagger.

Ind. Alas!

Nour. Why dost thou shake? Dishonour not the vengeance I designed: A queen, and own a base Plebeian mind! Let it drink deep in thy most vital part; Strike home, and do me reason in thy heart.

Ind. I dare not.

Nour. Do't, while I stand by and see, At my full gust, without the drudgery. I love a foe, who dares my stroke prevent, Who gives me the full scene of my content; Shows me the flying soul's convulsive strife, And all the anguish of departing life. Disdain my mercy, and my rage defy; Curse me with thy last breath, and make me see A spirit, worthy to have rivalled me.

Ind. Oh, I desire to die, but dare not yet! Give me some respite, I'll discharge the debt. Without my Aureng-Zebe I would not live.

Nour. Thine, traitress! thine! that word has winged thy fate, And put me past the tedious forms of hate: I'll kill thee with such eagerness and haste, As fiends, let loose, would lay all nature waste. [INDAMORA runs back: As NOURMAHAL is running to her, clashing of swords is heard within.

Sold. Yield, you're o'erpowered: Resistance is in vain. [Within.

Mor. Then death's my choice: Submission I disdain. [Within.

Nour. Retire, ye slaves! Ah, whither does he run [At the door. On pointed swords? Disarm, but save my son.

Enter MORAT staggering, and upheld by Soldiers.

Mor. She lives! and I shall see her once again! I have not thrown away my life in vain. [Catches hold of INDAMORA'S gown, and falls by her: She sits. I can no more; yet even in death I find My fainting body biassed by my mind: I fall toward you; still my contending soul Points to your breast, and trembles to its pole.

To them MELESINDA, hastily casting herself on the other side of MORAT.

Mel. Ah woe, woe, woe! the worst of woes I find! Live still; Oh live; live e'en to be unkind!— With half-shut eyes he seeks the doubtful day; But, ah! he bends his sight another way. He faints! and in that sigh his soul is gone; Yet heaven's unmoved, yet heaven looks careless on.

Nour. Where are those powers which monarchs should defend? Or do they vain authority pretend O'er human fates, and their weak empire show, Which cannot guard their images below? If, as their image, he was not divine, They ought to have respected him as mine. I'll waken them with my revenge; and she, Their Indamora, shall my victim be, And helpless heaven shall mourn in vain, like me. [As she is going to stab INDAMORA, MORAT raises himself, and holds her hand.

Mor. Ah, what are we, Who dare maintain with heaven this wretched strife, Puft with the pride of heaven's own gift, frail life? That blast which my ambitious spirit swelled, See by how weak a tenure it was held! I only stay to save the innocent; Oh envy not my soul its last content!

Ind. No, let me die; I'm doubly summoned now; First by my Aureng-Zebe, and since by you. My soul grows hardy, and can death endure; Your convoy makes the dangerous way secure.

Mel. Let me at least a funeral marriage crave, Nor grudge my cold embraces in the grave. I have too just a title in the strife; By me, unhappy me, he lost his life: I called him hither, 'twas my fatal breath, And I the screech-owl that proclaimed his death. [Shout within.

Abas. What new alarms are these? I'll haste and see. [Exit.

Nour. Look up and live; an empire shall be thine.

Mor. That I condemned, even when I thought it mine.— Oh, I must yield to my hard destinies, [To IND. And must for ever cease to see your eyes!

Mel. Ah turn your sight to me, my dearest lord! Can you not one, one parting look afford? Even so unkind in death:—but 'tis in vain; I lose my breath, and to the winds complain. Yet 'tis as much in vain your cruel scorn; Still I can love, without this last return. Nor fate, nor you, can my vowed faith controul; Dying, I follow your disdainful soul: A ghost, I'll haunt your ghost; and, where you go, With mournful murmurs fill the plains below.

Mor. Be happy, Melesinda; cease to grieve, And for a more deserving husband live:— Can you forgive me?

Mel. Can I! Oh, my heart! Have I heard one kind word before I part? I can, I can forgive: Is that a task To love like mine? Are you so good to ask! One kiss—Oh, 'tis too great a blessing this! [Kisses him. I would not live to violate the bliss,

Re-enter ABAS.

Abas. Some envious devil has ruined us yet more: The fort's revolted to the emperor; The gates are opened, the portcullis drawn, And deluges of armies from the town Come pouring in: I heard the mighty flaw, When first it broke; the crowding ensigns saw, Which choked the passage; and, what least I feared, The waving arms of Aureng-Zebe appeared, Displayed with your Morat's: In either's flag the golden serpents bear Erected crests alike, like volumes rear, And mingle friendly hissings in the air. Their troops are joined, and our destruction nigh.

Neur. 'Tis vain to fight, and I disdain to fly. I'll mock the triumphs which our foes intend, And spite of fortune, make a glorious end. In poisonous draughts my liberty I'll find, And from the nauseous world set free my mind. [Exit.

At the other end of the Stage enter AURENG-ZEBE, DIANET, and Attendants. AURENG-ZEBE turns back, and speaks entering.

Aur. The lives of all, who cease from combat, spare; My brother's be your most peculiar care: Our impious use no longer shall obtain; Brothers no more by brothers shall be slain.— [Seeing INDAMORA and MORAT. Ha! do I dream? Is this my hoped success? I grow a statue, stiff and motionless. Look, Dianet; for I dare not trust these eyes; They dance in mists, and dazzle with surprise.

Dia. Sir, 'tis Morat; dying he seems, or dead; And Indamora's hand—

Aur. Supports his head. [Sighing. Thou shalt not break yet, heart, nor shall she know My inward torments by my outward show: To let her see my weakness were too base; Dissembled quiet sit upon my face: My sorrow to my eyes no passage find, But let it inward sink, and drown my mind. Falsehood shall want its triumph: I begin To stagger, but I'll prop myself within. The specious tower no ruin shall disclose, Till down at once the mighty fabric goes,

Mor. In sign that I die yours, reward my love, [To IND. And seal my passport to the blessed above. [Kissing her hand.

Ind. Oh stay; or take me with you when you go; There's nothing now worth living for below.

Mor. I leave you not; for my expanded mind Grows up to heaven, while it to you is joined: Not quitting, but enlarged! A blazing fire, Fed from the brand. [Dies.

Mel. Ah me! he's gone! I die! [Swoons.

Ind. Oh, dismal day! Fate, thou hast ravished my last hope away! [She turns, and sees AURENG-ZEBE standing by her, and starts. O heaven! my Aureng-Zebe—What strange surprise! Or does my willing mind delude my eyes, And shows the figure always present there? Or liv'st thou? am I blessed, and see thee here?

Aur. My brother's body see conveyed with care, [Turning from her, to her Attendants. Where we may royal sepulture prepare. With speed to Melesinda bring relief: Recal her spirits, and moderate her grief— [Half turning to IND. I go, to take for ever from your view, Both the loved object, and the hated too. [Going away after the bodies, which are carried off.

Ind. Hear me! yet think not that I beg your stay; [Laying hold of him. I will be heard, and, after, take your way. Go; but your late repentance shall be vain: [He struggles still: she lets him go. I'll never, never see your face again. [Turning away.

Aur. Madam, I know whatever you can say: You might be pleased not to command my stay. All things are yet disordered in the fort; I must crave leave your audience may be short.

Ind. You need not fear I shall detain you long: Yet you may tell me your pretended wrong.

Aur. Is that the business? then my stay is vain.

Ind. How are you injured?

Aur. When did I complain?

Ind. Leave off your forced respect, And show your rage in its most furious form: I'm armed with innocence to brave the storm. You heard, perhaps, your brother's last desire, And, after, saw him in my arms expire; Saw me, with tears, so great a loss, bemoan; Heard me complaining my last hopes were gone.

Aur. "Oh stay, or take me with you when you go, There's nothing now worth living for below." Unhappy sex! whose beauty is your snare: Exposed to trials; made too frail to bear. I grow a fool, and show my rage again: 'Tis nature's fault; and why should I complain?

Ind. Will you yet hear me?

Aur. Yes, till you relate What powerful motives did your change create. You thought me dead, and prudently did weigh Tears were but vain, and brought but youth's decay. Then, in Morat, your hopes a crown designed; And all the woman worked within your mind.— I rave again, and to my rage return, To be again subjected to your scorn.

Ind. I wait till this long storm be over-blown.

Aur. I'm conscious of my folly: I have done.— I cannot rail; but silently I'll grieve. How did I trust! and how did you deceive! Oh, Arimant, would I had died for thee! I dearly buy thy generosity.

Ind. Alas, is he then dead?

Aur. Unknown to me, He took my arms; and, while I forced my way Through troops of foes, which did our passage stay, My buckler o'er my aged father cast, Still fighting, still defending as I past, The noble Arimant usurped my name; Fought, and took from me, while he gave me, fame. To Aureng-Zebe, he made his soldiers cry, And, seeing not, where he heard danger nigh, Shot, like a star, through the benighted sky, A short, but mighty aid: At length he fell. My own adventures 'twere lost time to tell; Or how my army, entering in the night, Surprised our foes; The dark disordered fight: How my appearance, and my father shown, Made peace; and all the rightful monarch own. I've summed it briefly, since it did relate The unwelcome safety of the man you hate.

Ind. As briefly will I clear my innocence: Your altered brother died in my defence. Those tears you saw, that tenderness I showed, Were just effects of grief and gratitude. He died my convert.

Aur. But your lover too: I heard his words, and did your actions view; You seemed to mourn another lover dead: My sighs you gave him, and my tears you shed. But, worst of all, Your gratitude for his defence was shown: It proved you valued life, when I was gone.

Ind. Not that I valued life, but feared to die: Think that my weakness, not inconstancy.

Aur. Fear showed you doubted of your own intent: And she, who doubts, becomes less innocent. Tell me not you could fear; Fear's a large promiser; who subject live To that base passion, know not what they give. No circumstance of grief you did deny; And what could she give more, who durst not die?

Ind. My love, my faith.

Aur. Both so adulterate grown, When mixed with fear, they never could be known. I wish no ill might her I love befal; But she ne'er loved, who durst not venture all. Her life and fame should my concernment be; But she should only be afraid for me.

Ind. My heart was yours; but, oh! you left it here, Abandoned to those tyrants, hope and fear; If they forced from me one kind look, or word, Could you not that, not that small part afford?

Aur. If you had loved, you nothing yours could call; Giving the least of mine, you gave him all. True love's a miser; so tenacious grown, He weighs to the least grain of what's his own; More delicate than honour's nicest sense, Neither to give nor take the least offence. With, or without you, I can have no rest: What shall I do? you're lodged within my breast: Your image never will be thence displaced; But there it lies, stabbed, mangled, and defaced.

Ind. Yet to restore the quiet of your heart, There's one way left.

Aur. Oh, name it.

Ind. 'Tis to part. Since perfect bliss with me you cannot prove, I scorn to bless by halves the man I love.

Aur. Now you distract me more: Shall then the day, Which views my triumph, see our loves decay? Must I new bars to my own joy create? Refuse myself what I had forced from fate? What though I am not loved? Reason's nice taste does our delights destroy: Brutes are more blessed, who grossly feed on joy.

Ind. Such endless jealousies your love pursue, I can no more be fully blessed than you. I therefore go, to free us both from pain: I prized your person, but your crown disdain. Nay, even my own— I give it you; for, since I cannot call Your heart my subject, I'll not reign at all. [Exit.

Aur. Go: Though thou leav'st me tortured on the rack, 'Twixt shame and pride, I cannot call thee back.— She's guiltless, and I should submit; but oh! When she exacts it, can I stoop so low? Yes; for she's guiltless; but she's haughty too. Great souls long struggle ere they own a crime: She's gone; and leaves me no repenting time. I'll call her now; sure, if she loves, she'll stay; Linger at least, or not go far away. [Looks to the door, and returns. For ever lost! and I repent too late. My foolish pride would set my whole estate, Till, at one throw, I lost all back to fate.

To him the Emperor, drawing in INDAMORA: Attendants.

Emp. It must not be, that he, by whom we live, Should no advantage of his gift receive. Should he be wholly wretched? he alone, In this blessed day, a day so much his own? [To IND. I have not quitted yet a victor's right: I'll make you happy in your own despite. I love you still; and, if I struggle hard To give, it shows the worth of the reward.

Ind. Suppose he has o'ercome; must I find place Among his conquered foes, and sue for grace? Be pardoned, and confess I loved not well? What though none live my innocence to tell, I know it: Truth may own a generous pride: I clear myself, and care for none beside.

Aur. Oh, Indamora, you would break my heart! Could you resolve, on any terms, to part? I thought your love eternal: Was it tied So loosely, that a quarrel could divide? I grant that my suspicions were unjust; But would you leave me, for a small distrust? Forgive those foolish words— [Kneeling to her. They were the froth my raging folly moved, When it boiled up: I knew not then I loved; Yet then loved most.

Ind. [To AUR.] You would but half be blest! [Giving her hand, smiling.

Aur. Oh do but try My eager love: I'll give myself the lie. The very hope is a full happiness, Yet scantly measures what I shall possess. Fancy itself, even in enjoyment, is But a dumb judge, and cannot tell its bliss.

Emp. Her eyes a secret yielding do confess, And promise to partake your happiness. May all the joys I did myself pursue, Be raised by her, and multiplied on you!

A Procession of Priests, Slaves following, and, last, MELESINDA in white.

Ind. Alas! what means this pomp?

Aur. 'Tis the procession of a funeral vow, Which cruel laws to Indian wives allow, When fatally their virtue they approve; Cheerful in flames, and martyrs of their love.

Ind. Oh, my foreboding heart! the event I fear: And see! sad Melesinda does appear.

Mel. You wrong my love; what grief do I betray? This is the triumph of my nuptial day, My better nuptials; which, in spite of fate, For ever join me to my dear Morat. Now I am pleased; my jealousies are o'er: He's mine; and I can lose him now no more.

Emp. Let no false show of fame, your reason blind.

Ind. You have no right to die; he was not kind.

Mel. Had he been kind, I could no love have shown: Each vulgar virtue would as much have done. My love was such, it needed no return; But could, though he supplied no fuel, burn. Rich in itself, like elemental fire, Whose pureness does no aliment require. In vain you would bereave me of my lord; For I will die:—Die is too base a word, I'll seek his breast, and, kindling by his side, Adorned with flames, I'll mount a glorious bride. [Exit.

Enter NOURMAHAL, distracted, with ZAYDA.

Zay. She's lost, she's lost! but why do I complain, For her, who generously did life disdain! Poisoned, she raves— The envenomed body does the soul attack; The envenomed soul works its own poison back.

Nour. I burn, I more than burn; I am all fire. See how my mouth and nostrils flame expire! I'll not come near myself— Now I'm a burning lake, it rolls and flows; I'll rush, and pour it all upon my foes. Pull, pull that reverend piece of timber near: Throw't on—'tis dry—'twill burn— Ha, ha! how my old husband crackles there! Keep him down, keep him down; turn him about: I know him,—he'll but whiz, and strait go out. Fan me, you winds: What, not one breath of air? I'll burn them all, and yet have flames to spare. Quench me: Pour on whole rivers. 'Tis in vain: Morat stands there to drive them back again: With those huge billows in his hands, he blows New fire into my head: My brain-pan glows. See! see! there's Aureng-Zebe too takes his part; But he blows all his fire into my heart[4].

Aur. Alas, what fury's this?

Nour. That's he, that's he! [Staring upon him, and catching at him. I know the dear man's voice: And this my rival, this the cursed she. They kiss; into each other's arms they run: Close, close, close! must I see, and must have none? Thou art not hers: Give me that eager kiss. Ungrateful! have I lost Morat for this? Will you?—before my face?—poor helpless I See all, and have my hell before I die! [Sinks down.

Emp. With thy last breath thou hast thy crimes confest: Farewell; and take, what thou ne'er gav'st me, rest. But you, my son, receive it better here: [Giving him INDAMORA'S hand. The just rewards of love and honour wear. Receive the mistress, you so long have served; Receive the crown, your loyalty preserved. Take you the reins, while I from cares remove, And sleep within the chariot which I drove. [Exeunt.

Footnotes: 1. —Magne regnator deum, Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides? Ecquando saeva fulmen emittes manu, Si nunc serenum est? —Me velox cremet, Transactus ignis. Sum nocens, merui mori, Placui novercae.—Hippolitus apud Senecam.

See Langbaine, on this play.

2. In Dryden's time it was believed, that some Indian tribes devoured the bodies of their parents; affirming, they could shew no greater mark of respect, than to incorporate their remains with their own substance.

3. Langbaine traces this speech also to Seneca's Hippolitus.

—Thesei vultus amo; Illos priores quos tulit quondam puer, Cum prima puras barba signaret genas.

4. I wish the duty of an editor had permitted me to omit this extravagant and ludicrous rhapsody.



EPILOGUE

A pretty task! and so I told the fool, Who needs would undertake to please by rule: He thought, that if his characters were good, The scenes entire, and freed from noise and blood; The action great, yet circumscribed by time, The words not forced, but sliding into rhyme, The passions raised, and calm by just degrees, As tides are swelled, and then retire to seas; He thought, in hitting these, his business done, Though he, perhaps, has failed in every one: But, after all, a poet must confess, His art's like physic, but a happy guess. Your pleasure on your fancy must depend: The lady's pleased, just as she likes her friend. No song! no dance! no show! he fears you'll say: You love all naked beauties, but a play. He much mistakes your methods to delight; And, like the French, abhors our target-fight: But those damned dogs can ne'er be in the right. True English hate your Monsieur's paltry arts, For you are all silk-weavers in your hearts[1]. Bold Britons, at a brave Bear-Garden fray, Are roused: And, clattering sticks, cry,—Play, play, play![2] Meantime, your filthy foreigner will stare, And mutters to himself,—Ha! gens barbare! And, gad, 'tis well he mutters; well for him; Our butchers else would tear him limb from limb. 'Tis true, the time may come, your sons may be Infected with this French civility: But this, in after ages will be done: Our poet writes an hundred years too soon. This age comes on too slow, or he too fast: And early springs are subject to a blast! Who would excel, when few can make a test Betwixt indifferent writing and the best? For favours, cheap and common, who would strive, Which, like abandoned prostitutes, you give? Yet, scattered here and there, I some behold, Who can discern the tinsel from the gold: To these he writes; and, if by them allowed, 'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd. For he more fears, like a presuming man, Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs who can.

Footnotes: 1. Enemies, namely, like the English silk-weavers to the manufactures of France.

2. Alluding to the prize-fighting with broad-swords at the Bear-Garden: an amusement sufficiently degrading, yet more manly, and less brutal than that of boxing, as now practised. We have found, in the lowest deep, a lower still.

* * * * *

ALL FOR LOVE;

OR,

THE WORLD WELL LOST.

A

TRAGEDY.



ALL FOR LOVE.

The prologue to the preceding play has already acquainted us, that Dryden's taste for Rhyming, or Heroic Plays, was then upon the wane; and, accordingly "Aureng-Zebe" was the last tragedy which he formed upon that once admired model. "Henceforth a series of new times began," for, when given up by the only writer, whose command of flowing and powerful numbers had rendered it impressive, that department of the drama was soon abandoned by the inferior class of play-writers, to whom it presented multiplied difficulties, without a single advantage. The new taste, which our author had now decidedly adopted, was founded upon the stile of Shakespeare, of whose works he appears always to have been a persevering student, and, at length, an ardent admirer. Accordingly, he informs us, in the introduction, that this play is professedly written in imitation of "the divine Shakespeare." As if to bring this more immediately under the eye of the reader, he has chosen a subject upon which his immortal original had already laboured; and, perhaps, the most proper introduction to "All for Love" may be a parallel betwixt it and Shakespeare's "Antony and Cleopatra."

The first point of comparison is the general conduct, or plot, of the tragedy. And here Dryden, having, to use his own language, undertaken to shoot in the bow of Ulysses, imitates the wily Antinous in using art to eke out his strength, and suppling the weapon before he attempted to bend it.

Shakespeare, with the license peculiar to his age and character, had diffused the action of his play over Italy, Greece, and Egypt; but Dryden, who was well aware of the advantage to be derived from a simplicity and concentration of plot, has laid every scene in the city of Alexandria. By this he guarded the audience from that vague and puzzling distraction which must necessarily attend a violent change of place. It is a mistake to suppose, that the argument in favour of the unities depends upon preserving the deception of the scene; they are necessarily connected with the intelligibility of the piece. It may be true, that no spectator supposes that the stage before him is actually the court of Alexandria; yet, when he has once made up his mind to let it pass as such during the representation, it is a cruel tax, not merely on his imagination, but on his powers of comprehension, if the scene be suddenly transferred to a distant country. Time is lost before he can form new associations, and reconcile their bearings with those originally presented to him, and if he be a person of slow comprehension, or happens to lose any part of the dialogue, announcing the changes, the whole becomes unintelligible confusion. In this respect, and in discarding a number of uninteresting characters, the plan of Dryden's play must be unequivocally preferred to that of Shakespeare in point of coherence, unity, and simplicity. It is a natural consequence of this more artful arrangement of the story, that Dryden contents himself with the concluding scene of Antony's history instead of introducing the incidents of the war with Cneius Pompey, the negociation with Lepidus, death of his first wife, and other circumstances, which, in Shakespeare, only tend to distract our attention from the main interest of the drama. The union of time, as necessary as that of place to the intelligibility of the drama, has, in like manner, been happily attained; and an interesting event is placed before the audience with no other change of place, and no greater lapse of time, than can be readily adapted to an ordinary imagination.

But, having given Dryden the praise of superior address in managing the story, I fear he must be pronounced in most other respects inferior to his grand prototype. Antony, the principal character in both plays, is incomparably grander in that of Shakespeare. The majesty and generosity of the military hero is happily expressed by both poets; but the awful ruin of grandeur, undermined by passion, and tottering to its fall, is far more striking in the Antony of Shakespeare. Love, it is true, is the predominant; but it is not the sole ingredient in his character. It has usurped possession of his mind, but is assailed by his original passions, ambition of power, and thirst for military fame. He is, therefore, often, and it should seem naturally represented, as feeling for the downfall of his glory and power, even so intensely as to withdraw his thoughts from Cleopatra, unless considered as the cause of his ruin. Thus, in the scene in which he compares himself to "black Vesper's pageants," he runs on in a train of fantastic and melancholy similes, having relation only to his fallen state, till the mention of Egypt suddenly recalls the idea of Cleopatra. But Dryden has taken a different view of Antony's character, and more closely approaching to his title of "All for Love."—"He seems not now that awful Antony." His whole thoughts and being are dedicated to his fatal passion; and though a spark of resentment is occasionally struck out by the reproaches of Ventidius, he instantly relapses into love-sick melancholy. The following beautiful speech exhibits the romance of despairing love, without the deep and mingled passion of a dishonoured soldier, and dethroned emperor:

Ant. [Throwing himself down.] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; The place, thou pressest on thy mother earth, Is all thy empire now: Now, it contains thee; Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, When thou'rt contracted in the narrow urn, Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then, Octavia, For Cleopatra will not live to see it, Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widowed hand to Caesar; Caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep, To see his rival of the universe Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't. Give me some music; look that it be sad: I'll sooth my melancholy, 'till I swell, And burst myself with sighing— [Soft music. 'Tis somewhat to my humour: Stay, I fancy I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all; Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, I lean my head upon the mossy bark, And look just of a piece, as I grew from it: My uncombed locks, matted like misletoe, Hang o'er my hoary face; a murmuring brook Runs at my foot.

Ven. Methinks I fancy Myself there too.

Ant. The herd come jumping by me, And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, And take me for their fellow-citizen.

Even when Antony is finally ruined, the power of jealousy is called upon to complete his despair, and he is less sensible to the idea of Caesar's successful arms, than to the risque of Dolabella's rivalling him in the affections of Cleopatra. It is true, the Antony of Shakespeare also starts into fury, upon Cleopatra permitting Thyreus to kiss her hand; but this is not jealousy; it is pride offended, that she, for whom he had sacrificed his glory and empire, should already begin to court the favour of the conqueror, and vouchsafe her hand to be saluted by a "jack of Caesars." Hence Enobarbus, the witness of the scene, alludes immediately to the fury of mortified ambition and falling power:

'Tis better playing with a lion's whelp, Than with an old one dying—

Having, however, adopted an idea of Antony's character, rather suitable to romance than to nature, or history, we must not deny Dryden the praise of having exquisitely brought out the picture he intended to draw. He has informed us, that this was the only play written to please himself; and he has certainly exerted in it the full force of his incomparable genius. Antony is throughout the piece what the author meant him to be; a victim to the omnipotence of love, or rather to the infatuation of one engrossing passion[1].

In the Cleopatra of Dryden, there is greatly less spirit and originality than in Shakespeare's. The preparation of the latter for death has a grandeur which puts to shame the same scene in Dryden, and serves to support the interest during the whole fifth act, although Antony has died in the conclusion of the fourth. No circumstance can more highly evince the power of Shakespeare's genius, in spite of his irregularities; since the conclusion in Dryden, where both lovers die in the same scene, and after a reconciliation, is infinitely more artful and better adapted to theatrical effect.

In the character of Ventidius, Dryden has filled up, with ability, the rude sketches, which Shakespeare has thrown off in those of Scaeva and Eros. The rough old Roman soldier is painted with great truth; and the quarrel betwixt him and Antony, in the first act, is equal to any single scene that our author ever wrote, excepting, perhaps, that betwixt Sebastian and Dorax; an opinion in which the judgment of the critic coincides with that of the poet. It is a pity, as has often been remarked, that this dialogue occurs so early in the play, since what follows is necessarily inferior in force. Dryden, while writing this scene, had unquestionably in his recollection the quarrel betwixt Brutus and Cassius, which was justly so great a favourite in his time, and to which he had referred as inimitable in his prologue to "Aureng-Zebe.[2]"

The inferior characters are better supported in Dryden than in Shakespeare. We have no low buffoonery in the former, such as disgraces Enobarbus, and is hardly redeemed by his affecting catastrophe. Even the Egyptian Alexas acquires some respectability, from his patriotic attachment to the interests of his country, and from his skill as a wily courtier. He expresses, by a beautiful image, the effeminate attachment to life, appropriated to his character and country:

O, that I less could fear to lose this being, Which, like a snow-ball in my coward hand, The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away.

The Octavia of Dryden is a much more important personage than in the "Antony and Cleopatra" of Shakespeare. She is, however, more cold and unamiable; for, in the very short scenes in which the Octavia of Shakespeare appears, she is placed in rather an interesting point of view. But Dryden has himself informed us, that he was apprehensive the justice of a wife's claim upon her husband would draw the audience to her side, and lessen their interest in the lover and the mistress. He seems accordingly to have studiedly lowered the character of the injured Octavia, who, in her conduct towards her husband, shews much duty and little love; and plainly intimates, that her rectitude of conduct flows from a due regard to her own reputation, rather than from attachment to Antony's person, or sympathy with him in his misfortunes. It happens, therefore, with Octavia, as with all other very good selfish kind of people; we think it unnecessary to feel any thing for her, as she is obviously capable of taking very good care of herself. I must not omit, that her scolding scene with Cleopatra, although anxiously justified by the author in the preface, seems too coarse to be in character, and is a glaring exception to the general good taste evinced throughout the rest of the piece.

It would be too long a task to contrast the beauties of these two great poets in point of diction and style. But the reader will doubtless be pleased to compare the noted descriptions of the voyage of Cleopatra down the Cydnus. It is thus given in Shakespeare:

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, Burned on the water: The poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with them: The oars were silver; Which, to the tune of flutes, kept stroke, and made The water which they beat, to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggared all description: she did lie In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue), O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see, The fancy outwork nature; on each side her, Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With diverse coloured fans, whose wind did seem To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, And what they undid, did. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereids, So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, And made their bends adornings: At the helm A seeming mermaid steers: The silken tackle Swells with the touches of those flower-soft hands That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her; and Antony, Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone, Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy, Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in nature. Antony and Cleopatra, Act i. Scene 2.

The parallel passage in Dryden runs thus:

The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold, The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed; Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay,

Dola. No more: I would not hear it,

Ant. O, you must! She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, And cast a look so languishingly sweet, As if secure of all beholders hearts, Neglecting she could take them: Boys, like Cupids, Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds That played about her face! But if she smiled, A darting glory secured to blaze abroad: That men's desiring eyes were never wearied, But hung upon the object: To soft flutes The silver oars kept time; and while they played, The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more; For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath To give their welcome voice. Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul? Was not thy fury quite disarmed with murder? Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes, And whisper in my ear, Oh, tell her not That I accused her of my brother's death?

In judging betwixt these celebrated passages, we feel almost afraid to avow a preference of Dryden, founded partly upon the easy flow of the verse, which seems to soften with the subject, but chiefly upon the beauty of the language and imagery, which is flowery without diffusiveness, and rapturous without hyperbole. I fear Shakespeare cannot be exculpated from the latter fault; yet I am sensible, it is by sifting his beauties from his conceits that his imitator has been enabled to excel him.

It is impossible to bestow too much praise on the beautiful passages which occur so frequently in "All for Love." Having already given several examples of happy expression of melancholy and tender feelings, I content myself with extracting the sublime and terrific description of an omen presaging the downfall of Egypt.

Serap. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone isle of the temple while I walked, A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, Shook all the dome: The doors around me clapt; The iron wicket, that defends the vault, Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid, Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. From out each monument, in order placed, An armed ghost starts up: The boy-king last Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then followed, and a lamentable voice Cried,—"Egypt is no more!" My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked; On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so, unfinished, left the horrid scene.