And what a poor figure would Mr Bayes have made, without his Egad, and all that?” But, by means of this easy flow of versification in which the rhime is sometimes almost lost by the pause being transferred to the middle of the line, Dryden, in some measure indemnified himself for his confinement, and, at least, muffled the clank of his fetters.  Still, however, neither the kind of verse, nor perhaps the poet, himself, were formed for expressing rapid and ardent dialogue; and the beauties of “Aureng-Zebe” will be found chiefly to consist in strains of didactic morality, or solemn meditation.  The passage, descriptive of life, has been distinguished by all the critics, down to Dr Johnson: 

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.

Nor is the answer of Nourmahal inferior in beauty: 

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.

It might be difficult to point out a passage in English poetry, in which so common and melancholy a truth is expressed in such beautiful verse, varied with such just illustration.  The declamation on virtue, also, has great merit, though, perhaps, not equal to that on the vanity of life: 

Aur. How vain is virtue, which directs our ways Through certain danger to uncertain praise!  Barren, and airy name! thee fortune flies, With thy lean train, the pious and the wise.  Heaven takes thee at thy word, without regard; And let’s thee poorly be thy own reward.  The world is made for the bold impious man, Who stops at nothing, seizes all he can.  Justice to merit does weak aid afford; She trusts her balance, and neglects her sword.  Virtue is nice to take what’s not her own; And, while she long consults, the prize is gone.

To this account may be added the following passage from Davies’ “Dramatic Miscellanies.”

“Dryden’s last and most perfect rhiming tragedy was ‘Aureng-Zebe.’  In this play, the passions are strongly depicted, the characters well discriminated, and the diction more familiar and dramatic than in any of his preceding pieces.  Hart and Mohun greatly distinguished themselves in the characters of Aureng-Zebe, and the Old Emperor.  Mrs Marshall was admired in Nourmahal, and Kynaston has been much extolled by Cibber, for his happy expression of the arrogant and savage fierceness in Morat.  Booth, in some part of this character, says the same critical historian, was too tame, from an apprehension of raising the mirth of the audience improperly.