Ind. [To Aur.]
You would but half be blest![Giving her hand, smiling.
Aur. Oh do but try
My eager love: I'll give myself the lie.
The very hope is a full happiness,
Yet scantly measures what I shall possess.
Fancy itself, even in enjoyment, is
But a dumb 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.