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 bless'd day, a day so much his own?
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 shews the worth of the reward.
Ind. Suppose he has o'ercome; must I find place
Among his conquer'd foes, and sue for grace?
Be pardon'd, 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 boil'd 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 shew 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, Adorn'd 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 !
Poison'd, she raves-
The envenom❜d body does the soul attack;
The envenom'd 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.*
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?
* I wish the duty of an editor had permitted me to omit this extravagant and ludicrous rhapsody.
Thou art not hers: Give me that eager kiss.
Ungrateful! have I lost Morat for this?
Will you ?-before my face?-poor helpless 1
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.
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 swell'd, and then retire to seas;
He thought, in hitting these, his business done,
Though he, perhaps, has fail'd 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 damn'd 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.*
Bold Britons, at a brave Bear-Garden fray,
Are roused, and, clattering sticks, cry,-Play, play, play!+
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!
Enemies, namely, like the English silk-weavers to the manufactures of
+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.
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