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.