_Emp._ Oh, Aureng-Zebe! thy virtues shine too bright, They flash too fierce: I, like the bird of night, Shut my dull eyes, and sicken at the sight. Thou hast deserved more love than I can show; But 'tis thy fate to give, and mine to owe. Thou seest me much distempered in my mind; Pulled back, and then pushed forward to be kind. Virtue, and--fain I would my silence break, But have not yet the confidence to speak. Leave me, and to thy needful rest repair. _Aur._ Rest is not suiting with a lover's care. I have not yet my Indamora seen. [_Is going._ _Emp._ Somewhat I had forgot; come back again: So weary of a father's company? _Aur._ Sir, you were pleased yourself to license me. _Emp._ You made me no relation of the fight; Besides, a rebel's army is in sight. Advise me first: Yet go-- He goes to Indamora; I should take [_Aside._ A kind of envious joy to keep him back. Yet to detain him makes my love appear;-- I hate his presence, and his absence fear. [_Exit._ _Aur._ To some new clime, or to thy native sky, Oh friendless and forsaken Virtue, fly! Thy Indian air is deadly to thee grown: Deceit and cankered malice rule thy throne. Why did my arms in battle prosperous prove, To gain the barren praise of filial love? The best of kings by women is misled, Charmed by the witchcraft of a second bed. Against myself I victories have won, And by my fatal absence am undone. _To him_ INDAMORA, _with_ ARIMANT. But here she comes! In the calm harbour of whose gentle breast, My tempest-beaten soul may safely rest. Oh, my heart's joy! whate'er my sorrows be, They cease and vanish in beholding thee! Care shuns thy walks; as at the cheerful light, The groaning ghosts and birds obscene take flight. By this one view, all my past pains are paid; And all I have to come more easy made. _Ind._ Such sullen planets at my birth did shine, They threaten every fortune mixt with mine. Fly the pursuit of my disastrous love, And from unhappy neighbourhood remove. _Aur._ Bid the laborious hind, Whose hardened hands did long in tillage toil, Neglect the promised harvest of the soil. Should I, who cultivated love with blood, Refuse possession of approaching good? _Ind._ Love is an airy good, opinion makes; Which he, who only thinks he has, partakes: Seen by a strong imagination's beam, That tricks and dresses up the gaudy dream: Presented so, with rapture 'tis enjoyed; Raised by high fancy, and by low destroyed. _Aur._ If love be vision, mine has all the fire, Which, in first dreams, young prophets does inspire: I dream, in you, our promised paradise: An age's tumult of continued bliss. But you have still your happiness in doubt; Or else 'tis past, and you have dreamt it out. _Ind._ Perhaps not so.