_Emp._ Prudence, thou vainly in our youth art sought, And, with age purchased, art too dearly bought: We're past the use of wit, for which we toil; Late fruit, and planted in too cold a soil. My stock of fame is lavished and decayed; No profit of the vast profusion made. Too late my folly I repent; I know My Aureng-Zebe would ne'er have used me so. But, by his ruin, I prepared my own; And, like a naked tree, my shelter gone, To winds and winter-storms must stand exposed alone. [_Exit._ _Enter_ AURENG-ZEBE _and_ ARIMANT. _Arim._ Give me not thanks, which I will ne'er deserve; But know, 'tis for a noble price I serve. By Indamora's will you're hither brought: All my reward in her command I sought. The rest your letter tells you.--See, like light, She comes, and I must vanish, like the night. [_Exit._ _Enter_ INDAMORA. _Ind._ 'Tis now, that I begin to live again; Heavens, I forgive you all my fear and pain: Since I behold my Aureng-Zebe appear, I could not buy him at a price too dear. His name alone afforded me relief, Repeated as a charm to cure my grief. I that loved name did, as some god, invoke, And printed kisses on it, while I spoke. _Aur._ Short ease, but long, long pains from you I find; Health, to my eyes; but poison, to my mind. Why are you made so excellently fair? So much above what other beauties are, That, even in cursing, you new form my breath; And make me bless those eyes which give me death! _Ind._ What reason for your curses can you find? My eyes your conquest, not your death, designed. If they offend, 'tis that they are too kind. _Aur._ The ruins they have wrought, you will not see; Too kind they are, indeed, but not to me. _Ind._ Think you, base interest souls like mine can sway? Or that, for greatness, I can love betray? No, Aureng-Zebe, you merit all my heart, And I'm too noble but to give a part. Your father, and an empire! Am I known No more? Or have so weak a judgment shown, In chusing you, to change you for a throne? _Aur._ How, with a truth, you would a falsehood blind! 'Tis not my father's love you have designed; Your choice is fix'd where youth and power are join'd. _Ind._ Where youth and power are joined!--has he a name? _Aur._ You would be told; you glory in your shame: There's music in the sound; and, to provoke Your pleasure more, by me it must be spoke. Then, then it ravishes, when your pleased ear The sound does from a wretched rival hear. Morat's the name your heart leaps up to meet, While Aureng-Zebe lies dying at your feet. _Ind._ Who told you this? _Aur._ Are you so lost to shame? Morat, Morat, Morat! You love the name So well, your every question ends in that; You force me still to answer you, Morat. Morat, who best could tell what you revealed; Morat, too proud to keep his joy concealed.