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.