_Aur._ I hate the lingering summons to attend; Death all at once would be the nobler end. Fate is unkind! methinks, a general Should warm, and at the head of armies fall; And my ambition did that hope pursue, That so I might have died in fight for you. [_To his Father._
_Mor._ Would I had been disposer of thy stars! Thou shouldst have had thy wish, and died in wars. 'Tis I, not thou, have reason to repine, That thou shouldst fall by any hand, but mine.
_Aur._ When thou wert formed, heaven did a man begin; But the brute soul, by chance, was shuffled in. In woods and wilds thy monarchy maintain, Where valiant beasts, by force and rapine, reign. In life's next scene, if transmigration be, Some bear, or lion, is reserved for thee.
_Mor._ Take heed thou com'st not in that lion's way! I prophecy, thou wilt thy soul convey Into a lamb, and be again my prey.-- Hence with that dreaming priest!
_Nour._ Let me prepare The poisonous draught: His death shall be my care. Near my apartment let him prisoner be, That I his hourly ebbs of life may see.
_Aur._ My life I would not ransom with a prayer: 'Tis vile, since 'tis not worth my father's care. I go not, sir, indebted to my grave: You paid yourself, and took the life you gave. [_Exit._
_Emp._ O that I had more sense of virtue left, [_Aside._ Or were of that, which yet remains, bereft! I've just enough to know how I offend, And, to my shame, have not enough to mend. Lead to the mosque.--
_Mor._ Love's pleasures, why should dull devotion stay? Heaven to my Melesinda's but the way. [_Exeunt Emperor,_ MORAT, _and train._
_Zayd._ Sure Aureng-Zebe has somewhat of divine, Whose virtue through so dark a cloud can shine. Fortune has from Morat this day removed The greatest rival, and the best beloved.
_Zayd._ He lives, 'tis true; But soon must die, and, what I mourn, by you.
_Nour._ My Zayda, may thy words prophetic be! [_Embracing her eagerly._ I take the omen; let him die by me! He, stifled in my arms, shall lose his breath; And life itself shall envious be of death.
_Nour._ Why dost thou start? Is love so strange? Or have not I a heart? Could Aureng-Zebe so lovely seem to thee, And I want eyes that noble worth to see? Thy little soul was but to wonder moved: My sense of it was higher, and I loved. That man, that god-like man, so brave, so great-- But these are thy small praises I repeat. I'm carried by a tide of love away: He's somewhat more than I myself can say,