_Ind._ If, sir, I seem not discomposed with rage, Feed not your fancy with a false presage. Farther to press your courtship is but vain; A cold refusal carries more disdain. Unsettled virtue stormy may appear; Honour, like mine, serenely is severe; To scorn your person, and reject your crown, Disorder not my face into a frown. [_Turns from him._ _Mor._ Your fortune you should reverently have used: Such offers are not twice to be refused. I go to Aureng-Zebe, and am in haste For your commands; they're like to be the last. _Ind._ Tell him, With my own death I would his life redeem; But less than honour both our lives esteem. _Mor._ Have you no more? _Ind._ What shall I do or say? He must not in this fury go away.-- [_Aside._ Tell him, I did in vain his brother move; And yet he falsely said, he was in love: Falsely; for, had he truly loved, at least He would have given one day to my request. _Mor._ A little yielding may my love advance: She darted from her eyes a sidelong glance, Just as she spoke; and, like her words, it flew: Seemed not to beg, what yet she bid me do. [_Aside._ A brother, madam, cannot give a day; [_To her._ A servant, and who hopes to merit, may. _Mel._ If, sir-- [_Coming to him._ _Mor._ No more--set speeches, and a formal tale, With none but statesmen and grave fools prevail. Dry up your tears, and practice every grace, That fits the pageant of your royal place. [_Exit._ _Mel._ Madam, the strange reverse of fate you see: I pitied you, now you may pity me. [_Exit after him._ _Ind._ Poor princess! thy hard fate I could bemoan, Had I not nearer sorrows of my own. Beauty is seldom fortunate, when great: A vast estate, but overcharged with debt. Like those, whom want to baseness does betray, I'm forced to flatter him, I cannot pay. O would he be content to seize the throne! I beg the life of Aureng-Zebe alone. Whom heaven would bless, from pomp it will remove, And make their wealth in privacy and love. [_Exit._ ACT IV. SCENE I. AURENG-ZEBE _alone._ Distrust, and darkness, of a future state, Make poor mankind so fearful of their fate. Death, in itself, is nothing; but we fear, To be we know not what, we know not where. [_Soft music._ This is the ceremony of my fate: A parting treat; and I'm to die in state. They lodge me, as I were the Persian King: And with luxuriant pomp my death they bring. _To him,_ NOURMAHAL. _Nour._ I thought, before you drew your latest breath, To smooth your passage, and to soften death; For I would have you, when you upward move, Speak kindly of me, to our friends above: Nor name me there the occasion of our fate; Or what my interest does, impute to hate.