that sound, methinks, I hear
Like the last trumpet thundering in my ear.

_Enter_ SOLYMAN.

_Solym._ The princess Melesinda, bathed in tears,
And tossed alternately with hopes and fears,
If your affairs such leisure can afford,
Would learn from you the fortunes of her lord.

_Arim._ Tell her, that I some certainty may bring,
I go this minute to attend the king.

_Ind._ This lonely turtle I desire to see:
Grief, though not cured, is eased by company.

_Arim._ [_To_ SOLYM.]
Say, if she please, she hither may repair,
And breathe the freshness of the open air. [_Exit_ SOLYM.

_Ind._ Poor princess! how I pity her estate,
Wrapt in the ruins of her husband's fate!
She mourned Morat should in rebellion rise;
Yet he offends, and she's the sacrifice.

_Arim._ Not knowing his design, at court she staid;
'Till, by command, close prisoner she was made.
Since when,
Her chains with Roman constancy she bore,
But that, perhaps, an Indian wife's is more.

_Ind._ Go, bring her comfort; leave me here alone.

_Arim._ My love must still he in obedience shown. [_Exit_ ARIM.

_Enter_ MELESINDA, _led by_ SOLYMAN, _who retires afterwards._

_Ind._ When graceful sorrow in her pomp appears,
Sure she is dressed in Melesinda's tears.
Your head reclined, (as hiding grief from view)
Droops, like a rose, surcharged with morning dew.

_Mel._ Can flowers but droop in absence of the sun,
Which waked their sweets? And mine, alas! is gone.
But you the noblest charity express:
For they, who shine in courts, still shun distress.

_Ind._ Distressed myself, like you, confined, I live:
And, therefore, can compassion take and give.
We're both love's captives, but with fate so cross,
One must be happy by the other's loss.
Morat, or Aureng-Zebe, must fall this day.

_Mel._ Too truly Tamerlane's successors they;
Each thinks a world too little for his sway.
Could you and I the same pretences bring,
Mankind should with more ease receive a king:
I would to you the narrow world resign,
And want no empire while Morat was mine.

_Ind._ Wished freedom, I presage, you soon will find;
If heaven be just, and be to virtue kind.

_Mel._ Quite otherwise my mind foretels my fate:
Short is my life, and that unfortunate.
Yet should I not complain, would heaven afford
Some little time, ere death, to see my lord.

_Ind._ These thoughts are but your melancholy's food;
Raised from a lonely life, and dark abode:
But whatsoe'er our