_Ind._ These thoughts are but your melancholy's food; Raised from a lonely life, and dark abode: But whatsoe'er our jarring fortunes prove, Though our lords hate, methinks we two may love. _Mel._ Such be our loves as may not yield to fate; I bring a heart more true than fortunate. [_Giving their hands._ _To them,_ ARIMANT. _Arim._ I come with haste surprising news to bring: In two hours time, since last I saw the king, The affairs of court have wholly changed their face: Unhappy Aureng-Zebe is in disgrace; And your Morat, proclaimed the successor, Is called, to awe the city with his power. Those trumpets his triumphant entry tell, And now the shouts waft near the citadel. _Ind._ See, madam, see the event by me foreshown: I envy not your chance, but grieve my own. _Mel._ A change so unexpected must surprise: And more, because I am unused to joys. _Ind._ May all your wishes ever prosperous be! But I'm too much concerned the event to see. My eyes too tender are, To view my lord become the public scorn.-- I came to comfort, and I go to mourn. [_Taking her leave._ _Mel._ Stay, I'll not see my lord, Before I give your sorrow some relief; And pay the charity you lent my grief. Here he shall see me first, with you confined; And, if your virtue fail to move his mind, I'll use my interest that he may be kind. Fear not, I never moved him yet in vain. _Ind._ So fair a pleader any cause may gain. _Mel._ I have no taste, methinks, of coming joy; For black presages all my hopes destroy. "Die!" something whispers,--"Melesinda, die! Fulfil, fulfil, thy mournful destiny!"-- Mine is a gleam of bliss, too hot to last; Watry it shines, and will be soon o'ercast. [IND. _and_ MEL. _retire._ _Arim._ Fortune seems weary grown of Aureng-Zebe, While to her new-made favourite Morat, Her lavish hand is wastefully profuse: With fame and flowing honours tided in, Borne on a swelling current smooth beneath him. The king, and haughty empress, to our wonder, If not atoned, yet seemingly at peace, As fate for him that miracle reserved. _Enter, in triumph, Emperor,_ MORAT, _and Train._ _Emp._ I have confessed I love. As I interpret fairly your design, So look not with severer eyes on mine. Your fate has called you to the imperial seat: In duty be, as you in arms are, great; For Aureng-Zebe a hated name is grown, And love less bears a rival than the throne. _Mor._ To me, the cries of fighting fields are charms: Keen be my sabre, and of proof my arms, I ask no other blessing of my stars: No prize but fame, nor mistress but the wars. I scarce am pleased I tamely mount the throne:-- Would Aureng-Zebe had all their souls in one! With all my elder brothers I would fight, And so from partial nature force my right.