judge, and cannot tell its bliss.

_Emp._ Her eyes a secret yielding do confess,
And promise to partake your happiness.
May all the joys I did myself pursue,
Be raised by her, and multiplied on you!

_A Procession of Priests, Slaves following, and, last,_ MELESINDA
_in white._

_Ind._ Alas! what means this pomp?

_Aur._ 'Tis the procession of a funeral vow,
Which cruel laws to Indian wives allow,
When fatally their virtue they approve;
Cheerful in flames, and martyrs of their love.

_Ind._ Oh, my foreboding heart! the event I fear:
And see! sad Melesinda does appear.

_Mel._ You wrong my love; what grief do I betray?
This is the triumph of my nuptial day,
My better nuptials; which, in spite of fate,
For ever join me to my dear Morat.
Now I am pleased; my jealousies are o'er:
He's mine; and I can lose him now no more.

_Emp._ Let no false show of fame, your reason blind.

_Ind._ You have no right to die; he was not kind.

_Mel._ Had he been kind, I could no love have shown:
Each vulgar virtue would as much have done.
My love was such, it needed no return;
But could, though he supplied no fuel, burn.
Rich in itself, like elemental fire,
Whose pureness does no aliment require.
In vain you would bereave me of my lord;
For I will die:--Die is too base a word,
I'll seek his breast, and, kindling by his side,
Adorned with flames, I'll mount a glorious bride. [_Exit._

_Enter_ NOURMAHAL, _distracted, with_ ZAYDA.

_Zay._ She's lost, she's lost! but why do I complain,
For her, who generously did life disdain!
Poisoned, she raves--
The envenomed body does the soul attack;
The envenomed soul works its own poison back.

_Nour._ I burn, I more than burn; I am all fire.
See how my mouth and nostrils flame expire!
I'll not come near myself--
Now I'm a burning lake, it rolls and flows;
I'll rush, and pour it all upon my foes.
Pull, pull that reverend piece of timber near:
Throw't on--'tis dry--'twill burn--
Ha, ha! how my old husband crackles there!
Keep him down, keep him down; turn him about:
I know him,--he'll but whiz, and strait go out.
Fan me, you winds: What, not one breath of air?
I'll burn them all, and yet have flames to spare.
Quench me: Pour on whole rivers. 'Tis in vain:
Morat stands there to drive them back again:
With those huge billows in his hands, he blows
New fire into my head: My brain-pan glows.
See! see! there's Aureng-Zebe too takes his part;
But he blows all his f