_Asaph._ 'Tis past; and you desire his life in vain. He, prodigal of soul, rushed on the stroke Of lifted weapons, and did wounds provoke: In scorn of night, he would not be concealed; His soldiers, where he fought, his name revealed. In thickest crowds, still Aureng-Zebe did sound; The vaulted roofs did Aureng-Zebe rebound; Till late, and in his fall, the name was drowned. _Ind._ Wither that hand which brought him to his fate, And blasted be the tongue which did relate! _Asaph._ His body-- _Mor._ Cease to enhance her misery: Pity the queen, and show respect to me. 'Tis every painter's art to hide from sight, And cast in shades, what, seen, would not delight.-- Your grief in me such sympathy has bred, [_To her._ I mourn, and wish I could recal the dead. Love softens me; and blows up fires, which pass Through my tough heart, and melt the stubborn mass. _Ind._ Break, heart; or choak, with sobs, my hated breath! Do thy own work: admit no foreign death. Alas! why do I make this useless moan? I'm dead already, for my soul is gone. _To them,_ MIR BABA. _Mir._ What tongue the terror of this night can tell, Within, without, and round the citadel! A new-formed faction does your power oppose; The fight's confused, and all who meet are foes: A second clamour, from the town, we hear; And the far noise so loud, it drowns the near. Abas, who seemed our friend, is either fled, Or, what we fear, our enemies does head: Your frighted soldiers scarce their ground maintain. _Mor._ I thank their fury; we shall fight again: They rouse my rage; I'm eager to subdue: 'Tis fatal to with-hold my eyes from you. [_Exit with the two Omrahs._ _Enter_ MELESINDA. _Mel._ Can misery no place of safety know? The noise pursues me wheresoe'er I go, As fate sought only me, and, where I fled, Aimed all its darts at my devoted head. And let it; I am now past care of life; The last of women; an abandoned wife. _Ind._ Whether design or chance has brought you here, I stand obliged to fortune, or to fear: Weak women should, in danger, herd like deer. But say, from whence this new combustion springs? Are there yet more Morats? more fighting kings? _Mel._ Him from his mother's love your eyes divide, And now her arms the cruel strife decide. _Ind._ What strange misfortunes my vext life attend! Death will be kind, and all my sorrows end. If Nourmahal prevail, I know my fate. _Mel._ I pity, as my own, your hard estate: But what can my weak charity afford? I have no longer interest in my lord: Nor in his mother, he: she owns her hate Aloud, and would herself usurp the state. _Ind._ I'm stupified with sorrow, past relief Of tears; parched up, and withered with my grief. _Mel._ Dry mourning will decays more deadly bring, As a north wind burns a too forward spring. Give sorrow vent, and let the sluices go. _Ind._ My tears are all congealed, and will not flow. _Mel._ Have comfort; yield not to the blows of fate.