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.