The gates are open'd, the portcullis drawn;
And deluges of armies from the town
Come pouring in: I heard the mighty flaw,
When first it broke: the crowding ensigns saw,
Which chok'd the passage; and (what least I fear'd)
The waving arms of Aureng-Zebe appear'd,
Display'd with your Morat's:
In either's flag the golden serpents bear
Erected crests alike, like volumes rear,
And mingle friendly hissings in the air.
Their troops are join'd, and our destruction nigh.
Aur. Ha! do I dream? Is this my hop'd success?
I grow a statue, stiff, and motionless.
Look, Dianet: for I dare not trust these eyes;
They dance in mists, and dazzle with surprise.
Dianet. Sir, 'tis Morat; dying he seems, or dead:
And Indamora's hand
Thou shalt not break yet, heart, nor shall she know
My inward torments, by my outward show:
To let her see my weakness, were too base;
Dissembled quiet sit upon my face:
My sorrow to my eyes no passage find,
But let it inward sink, and drown my mind.
Falsehood shall want its triumph: I begin
To stagger; but I'll prop myself within.
The specious tow'r no ruin shall disclose,
Till down, at once, the mighty fabric goes.
He took my arms; and, while
Through troops of foes, which did our passage stay,
My buckler o'er my aged father cast,
Still fighting, still defending as I past,
The noble Arimant usurp'd my name;
Fought, and took from me, while he gave me, fame.
To Aureng-Zebe, he made his soldiers cry,
And seeing not, where he heard danger nigh,
Shot, like a star, through the benighted sky.
A short, but mighty aid: at length he fell.
My own adventures 'twere lost time to tell;
Or how my army ent'ring in the night,
Surpris'd our foes; the dark disorder'd fight:
How my appearance, and my father shown,
Made peace; and all the rightful monarch own.
I've summ'd it briefly, since it did relate
Th' unwelcome safety of the man you hate.
Ind. As briefly will I clear my innocence:
Your alter'd brother died in my defence.
Those tears you saw, that tenderness I show'd,
Were just effects of grief and gratitude.
He died my convert.
But your lover too:
I heard his words, and did your actions view;
You seem'd to mourn another lover dead:
My sighs you gave him, and my tears you shed.
Aur. True love's a miser; so tenacious grown, He weighs to the least grain of what's his own. More delicate than honour's nicest sense: Neither to give nor take the least offence. With, or without you, I can have no rest: What shall I do? you're lodg'd within my breast: Your image never will be thence displac'd; But there it lies, stabb'd, mangled, and defac'd.
Aur. Oh, Indamora, you would break my heart! Could you resolve, on any terms, to part?
I thought your love eternal: was it tied
So loosely, that a quarrel could divide?
I grant that my suspicions were unjust;
But would you leave me, for a small distrust?
Forgive those foolish words-
They were the froth my raging folly mov'd,
When it boil'd up: I knew not then I lov'd;
Yet then lov'd most.
WHAT flocks of critics hover here to-day,
As vultures wait on armies for their prey,
All gaping for the carcass of a play!
With croaking notes they bode some dire event,
And follow dying poets by the scent.
Serapion. Portents, and prodigies, are grown so frequent, That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile Flow'd ere the wonted season, with a torrent
So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce,
That the wild deluge overtook the haste
Ev'n of the hinds that watch'd it: men and beasts
Were borne above the tops of trees, that
On th' utmost margin of the water-mark.
Then, with so swift an ebb, the flood drove backward,
It slipt from underneath the scaly herd:
Here monstrous phocæ panted on the shore;
Forsaken dolphins there, with their broad tails,
Lay lashing the departing waves.
Sea-horses flound'ring in the slimy mud,
Toss'd up their heads, and dash'd the ooze about them.
Enter ALEXAS behind them.
Myris. Avert these omens, Heaven.
Serap. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone aisle o' th' temple while I walk'd,
A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast,
Shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt;
The iron wicket, that defends the vault,
Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid,
Burst open, and disclos'd the mighty dead.
From out each monument, in order plac'd,
An armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last
Rear'd his inglorious head. A peal of groans
Then follow'd, and a lamentable voice
Cried, Egypt is no more. My blood ran back,
My shaking knees against each other knock'd;
On the cold pavement down I fell entranc'd,
And so unfinish'd left the horrid scene.
Alexas. All southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp Hangs o'er us black and threat'ning, like a storm Just breaking on our heads.
Serap. How stands the queen affected?
Alex. O, she dotes,
She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquish'd man,
And winds herself about his mighty ruins;
Whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up,
This hunted prey, to his pursuers' hands.
She might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain.
This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels,
And makes me use all means to keep him here,
Whom I could wish divided from her arms
Far as the earth's deep centre.
The state of things; no more of
Well, you know
your ill omens,
And black prognostics; labour to confirm
The people's hearts.
Alex. A mortal foe he was to us, and Egypt.
But let me witness to the worth I hate;
A braver Roman never drew a sword.
Firm to his prince; but, as a friend, not slave.
He ne'er was of his pleasures; but presides
O'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels:
In short, the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue
Of an old true-stamp'd Roman lives in him.
His coming bodes I know not what of ill
To our affairs.
Gentleman. He eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use Of any thing, but thought; or, if he talks, 'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving: Then he defies the world, and bids it pass; Sometimes he gnaws his lip, and curses loud The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth Into a scornful smile, and cries, Take all, The world's not worth my care.
Ventidius. Just, just his nature.
Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow
For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide,
And bounds into a vice that bears him far
From his first course, and plunges him in ills:
But, when his danger makes him find his fault,
Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse,
He censures eagerly his own misdeeds,
Judging himself with malice to himself,
And not forgiving what as man he did,
Because his other parts are more than man.
Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than
T' upbraid my queen, for loving him too well.
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