n spite to me!
Some angel copied, while I slept, each grace,
And moulded every feature from my face.
Such majesty does from her forehead rise,
Her cheeks such blushes cast, such rays her eyes,
Nor I, nor envy, can a blemish find.--
The palace is, without, too well designed:
Conduct me in, for I will view thy mind. [_To her._
Speak, if thou hast a soul, that I may see,
If heaven can make, throughout, another me.

_Ind._ My tears and miseries must plead my cause; [_Kneeling._
My words, the terror of your presence awes:
Mortals, in sight of angels, mute become;
The nobler nature strikes the inferior dumb.

_Nour._ The palm is, by the foe's confession, mine;
But I disdain what basely you resign.
Heaven did, by me, the outward model build;
Its inward work, the soul, with rubbish filled.
Yet, oh! the imperfect piece moves more delight;
'Tis gilded o'er with youth, to catch the sight.
The gods have poorly robbed my virgin bloom,
And what I am, by what I was, o'ercome.
Traitress! restore my beauty and my charms,
Nor steal my conquest with my proper arms.

_Ind._ What have I done thus to inflame your hate?
I am not guilty, but unfortunate.

_Nour._ Not guilty, when thy looks my power betray,
Seduce mankind, my subject, from my sway,
Take all my hearts and all my eyes away?
My husband first; but that I could forgive;
He only moved, and talked, but did not live.
My Aureng-Zebe!--for I dare own the name,
The glorious sin, and the more glorious flame,--
Him from my beauty have thy eyes misled,
And starved the joys of my expected bed.

_Ind._ His love so sought, he's happy that he's dead.
O had I courage but to meet my fate,
That short dark passage to a future state,
That melancholy riddle of a breath!

_Nour._ That something, or that nothing, after death:
Take this, and teach thyself. [_Giving a Dagger._

_Ind._ Alas!

_Nour._ Why dost thou shake?
Dishonour not the vengeance I designed:
A queen, and own a base Plebeian mind!
Let it drink deep in thy most vital part;
Strike home, and do me reason in thy heart.

_Ind._ I dare not.

_Nour._ Do't, while I stand by and see,
At my full gust, without the drudgery.
I love a foe, who dares my stroke prevent,
Who gives me the full scene of my content;
Shows me the flying soul's convulsive strife,
And all the anguish of departing life.
Disdain my mercy, and my rage defy;
Curse me with thy last breath, and make me see