away.

_Mel._ I fear I'm guilty of some great offence,
And that has bred this cold indifference.

_Mor._ The greatest in the world to flesh and blood:
You fondly love much longer than you should.

_Mel._ If that be all which makes your discontent,
Of such a crime I never can repent.

_Mor._ Would you force love upon me, which I shun?
And bring coarse fare, when appetite is gone?

_Mel._ Why did I not in prison die, before
My fatal freedom made me suffer more?
I had been pleased to think I died for you,
And doubly pleased, because you then were true:
Then I had hope; but now, alas! have none.

_Mor._ You say you love me; let that love be shown.
'Tis in your power to make my happiness.

_Mel._ Speak quickly! To command me is to bless.

_Mor._ To Indamora you my suit must move:
You'll sure speak kindly of the man you love.

_Mel._ Oh, rather let me perish by your hand,
Than break my heart, by this unkind command!
Think, 'tis the only one I could deny;
And that 'tis harder to refuse, than die.
Try, if you please, my rival's heart to win;
I'll bear the pain, but not promote the sin.
You own whate'er perfections man can boast,
And, if she view you with my eyes, she's lost.

_Mor._ Here I renounce all love, all nuptial ties:
Henceforward live a stranger to my eyes:
When I appear, see you avoid the place,
And haunt me not with that unlucky face.

_Mel._ Hard as it is, I this command obey,
And haste, while I have life, to go away:
In pity stay some hours, till I am dead,
That blameless you may court my rival's bed.
My hated face I'll not presume to show;
Yet I may watch your steps where'er you go.
Unseen, I'll gaze; and, with my latest breath,
Bless, while I die, the author of my death. [_Weeping._

_Enter Emperor._

_Emp._ When your triumphant fortune high appears,
What cause can draw these unbecoming tears?
Let cheerfulness on happy fortune wait,
And give not thus the counter-time to fate.

_Mel._ Fortune long frowned, and has but lately smiled:
I doubt a foe so newly reconciled.
You saw but sorrow in its waning form,
A working sea remaining from a storm;
When the now weary waves roll o'er the deep,
And faintly murmur ere they fall asleep.

_Emp._ Your inward griefs you smother in your mind;
But fame's loud voice proclaims your lord unkind.

_Mor._ Let fame be busy, where she has to do;
Tell of fought fields, and every pompous show.
Those tales are fit to fill the people's ear