Ind. Yes, in a father's hand, whom he has served,
And, with the hazard of his life, preserved.
But piety to you, unhappy prince,
Becomes a crime, and duty an offence;
Against yourself you with your foes combine,
And seem your own destruction to design.
Emp. You may be pleased your politics to spare;
I'm old enough, and can myself take care.
Ind. Advice from me was, I confess, too bold:
You're old enough; it may be, sir, too old.
Emp. You please yourself with your contempt of age;
But love, neglected, will convert to rage.
If on your head my fury does not turn,
Thank that fond dotage which so much you scorn;
But, in another's person, you may prove,
There's warmth for vengeance left, though not for love.
Re-enter Arimant.
Arim. The empress has the antichambers past,
And this way moves with a disordered haste:
Her brows the stormy marks of anger bear.
Emp. Madam, retire; she must not find you here. [Exit Indamora with Arimant.
Enter Nourmahal hastily.
Nour. What have I done, that Nourmahal must prove
The scorn and triumph of a rival's love?
My eyes are still the same; each glance, each grace,
Keep their first lustre, and maintain their place;
Not second yet to any other face.
Emp. What rage transports you? Are you well awake?
Such dreams distracted minds in fevers make.