ire into my heart[4].

_Aur._ Alas, what fury's this?

_Nour._ That's he, that's he!
[_Staring upon him, and catching at him._
I know the dear man's voice:
And this my rival, this the cursed she.
They kiss; into each other's arms they run:
Close, close, close! must I see, and must have none?
Thou art not hers: Give me that eager kiss.
Ungrateful! have I lost Morat for this?
Will you?--before my face?--poor helpless I
See all, and have my hell before I die! [_Sinks down._

_Emp._ With thy last breath thou hast thy crimes confest:
Farewell; and take, what thou ne'er gav'st me, rest.
But you, my son, receive it better here:
[_Giving him_ INDAMORA'S _hand._
The just rewards of love and honour wear.
Receive the mistress, you so long have served;
Receive the crown, your loyalty preserved.
Take you the reins, while I from cares remove,
And sleep within the chariot which I drove. [_Exeunt._

Footnotes:
1. --_Magne regnator deum,
Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?
Ecquando saeva fulmen emittes manu,
Si nunc serenum est?
--Me velox cremet,
Transactus ignis. Sum nocens, merui mori,
Placui novercae._--Hippolitus apud Senecam.

See Langbaine, on this play.

2. In Dryden's time it was believed, that some Indian tribes devoured
the bodies of their parents; affirming, they could shew no greater
mark of respect, than to incorporate their remains with their own
substance.

3. Langbaine traces this speech also to Seneca's Hippolitus.

_--Thesei vultus amo;
Illos priores quos tulit quondam puer,
Cum prima puras barba signaret genas._

4. I wish the duty of an editor had permitted me to omit this
extravagant and ludicrous rhapsody.

EPILOGUE

A pretty task! and so I told the fool,
Who needs would undertake to please by rule:
He thought, that if his characters were good,
The scenes entire, and freed from noise and blood;
The action great, yet circumscribed by time,
The words not forced, but sliding into rhyme,
The passions raised, and calm by just degrees,
As tides are swelled, and then retire to seas;
He thought, in hitting these, his business done,
Though he, perhaps, has failed in every one:
But, after all, a poet must confess,
His art's like physic, but a happy guess.
Your pleasure on your fancy must depend: