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