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 blessed day, a day so much his own? [To IND. 
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 shows the worth of the reward.

Ind. Suppose he has o’ercome; must I find place
Among his conquered foes, and sue for grace? 
Be pardoned, 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 boiled 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 show 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,
Adorned with flames, I’ll mount a glorious bride. [Exit.