Aureng-Zebe, a tragedy acted at the Royal Theatre / written by John Dryden.

AURENG-ZEBE, A TRAGEDY. (Book 1)

ACT I. (Book 1)

Arimant, Asaph chawn, Fazel Chawn.

Arim.

HEav'n seems the Empire of the East to lay On the success of this important day: Their Arms are to the last decision bent, And Fortune labours with the vast event: She now has in her hand the greatest stake, Which for contending Monarchs she can make. What e'r can urge ambitious Youth to fight, She pompously displays before their sight: Laws, Empire, All permitted to the Sword, And Fate could ne'r an ampler Scene afford.

Asaph.

Four several Armies to the Field are led, Which, high in equal hopes four Princes Head: Indus and Ganges, our wide Empires Bounds, Swell their dy'd Currents with their Natives wounds: Each purple River winding, as he runs, His bloudy arms about his slaughter'd Sons.

Fazel.

I well remember you foretold the Storm, When first the Brothers did their Factions form: When each, by curs'd Cabals of Women, strove To draw th'indulgent King to partial Love.

Arim.

What Heav'n decrees, no prudence can prevent. To cure their mad Ambition, they were sent To rule a distant Province each alone. What could a careful Father more have done? He made provision against all, but Fate; While, by his health, we held our peace of State. The weight of seventy Winters prest him down, He bent beneath the burthen of a Crown: Sickness, at last▪ did his spent Body seize, And life almost sunk under the disease: Mortal 'twas thought, at least by them desir'd, Who, impiously, into his years inquir'd: As at a Signal, streight the Sons prepare For open force, and rush to sudden War: Meeting, like Winds broke loose upon the Main, To prove, by Arms, whose Fate it was to Reign.

Asaph.

Rebels and Parricides!

Arim.

Brand not their actions with so foul a name: Pity, at least, what we are forc'd to blame. When Death's cold hand has clos'd the Father's eye, You know the younger Sons are doom'd to die. Less ills are chosen greater to avoid, And Nature's Law are by the States destroy'd. What courage tamely could to death consent, And not, by striking first, the blow prevent? Who falls in fight, cannot himself accuse, And he dies greatly who a Crown pursues.

To them, Solyman Agah.

Solym.

A new Express all Agra does afright: Darah and Aureng-Zebe are joyn'd in Fight; The Press of people thickens to the Court, Th'impatient crowd devouring the report.

Arim.

T'each changing news they chang'd affections bring, And servilely from Fate expect a King.

Solym.

The Ministers of State, who gave us Law, In corners, with selected Friends, withdraw:

There, in deaf murmurs, solemnly are wise; Whisp'ring, like Winds, ere Hurricanes arise. The most corrupt are most obsequious grown, And those they scorn'd, officiously they own.

Asaph.

In change of Government, The Rabble rule their great Oppressors Fate: Do Sovereign Justice, and revenge the State.

Solym.

The little Courtiers, who ne'r come to know The depth of Factions, as in Mazes go, Where Int'rests meet and cross so oft, that they With too much care are wilder'd in their way.

Arim.

What of the Emperor?

Solym.

Unmov'd, and brave, he like himself appears, And, meriting no ill, no danger fears: Yet mourns his former vigour lost so far, To make him now spectator of a War: Repining that he must preserve his Crown By any help or courage but his own: Wishes, each minute, he could unbeget Those Rebel-Sons, who dare t'usurp his Seat: To sway his Empire with unequal skill, And mount a Throne, which none but he can fill.

Arim.

Oh! had he still that Character maintain'd, Of Valour, which in blooming Youth he gain'd! He promis'd in his East a glorious Race; Now, sunk from his Meridian, sets apace. But as the Sun, when he from Noon declines, And with abated heat, less fiercely shines, Seems to grow milder as he goes away, Pleasing himself with the remains of Day: So he who, in his Youth, for Glory strove, Would recompence his Age with Ease and Love.

Asaph.

The name of Father hateful to him grows, Which, for one Son, produces him three Foes.

Fazel.

Darah, the eldest, bears a generous mind; But to implacable revenge inclin'd. Too openly does Love and hatred show: A bounteous Master, but a deadly Foe.

Solym.

From Suja's valour I should much expect, But he's a Bigot of the Persian Sect: And, by a Foreign Int'rest seeks to Reign, Hopeless by Love and Sceptre to obtain.

Asaph.

Morat's too insolent, too much a Brave, His Courage to his Envy is a Slave. What he attempts, if his endeavours fail T'effect, he is resolv'd no other shall.

Arim.

But Aureng-Zebe, by no strong passion sway'd, Except his Love, more temp'rate is, and weigh'd: This Atlas must our sinking State uphold; In Council cool, but in Performance bold: He sums their Virtues in himself alone, And adds the greatest, of a Loyal Son: His Father's Cause upon his Sword he wears, And with his Arms, we hope, his Fortune bears.

Solym.

Two vast Rewards may well his courage move, A Parent's Blessing, and a Mistris Love. If he succeed, his recompence, we hear, Must be the Captive Queen of Cassimere.

To them, Abas.

Abas.

Mischiefs on mischiefs, greater still, and more: The neighb'ring Plain with Arms is cover'd o'r: The Vale an Iron-Harvest seems to yield Of thick-sprung Lances in a waving Field. The pollish'd Steel gleams terribly from far, And every moment nearer shows the War. The Horses Neighing by the Wind is blown, And Castl'd-Elephants o'r-look the Town.

Arim.

If, as I fear, Morat these Pow'rs commands, Our Empire on the brink of ruine stands, Th'ambitious Empress with her Son is joyn'd, And, in his Brother's absence, has design'd The unprovided Town to take with ease, And then, the Person of the King to seize.

Solym.

To all his former Issue she has shown Long hate, and labour'd to advance her own.

Ab.

These Troops are his. Surat he took; and thence, preventing Fame, By quick and painful Marches hither came. Since his approach, he to his Mother sent, And two long hours in close debate were spent.

Arim.

I'll to my Charge, the Cittadel, repair, And show my duty by my timely care.

To them the Emperor with a Letter in his hand: after him, an Ambassador, with a Train following.

Asaph.

But see, the Emperor! a fiery red His Brows and glowing Temples does o'r-spread, Morat has some displeasing Message sent.

Amb.

Do not, great Sir, misconstrue his intent; Nor call Rebellion what was prudent care, To guard himself by necessary War: While he believ'd you living, he obey'd: His Governments but as your Vice-Roy sway'd: But, when he thought you gone, T'augment the number of the Bless'd above, He deem'd 'em Legacies of Royal love: Nor arm'd his Brothers Portions to invade, But to defend the present you had made.

Emp.

By frequent Messages, and strict Commands, He knew my pleasure to discharge his Bands: Proof of my life my Royal Signet made; Yet still hearm'd, came on, and disobey'd.

Amb.

He thought the Mandat forg'd, your death conceal'd: And but delay'd, till truth should be reveal'd.

Emp.

News of my death from Rumor he receiv'd; And what he wish'd, he easily believ'd: But long demurr'd, though from my hand he knew I liv'd, so loath he was to think it true. Since he pleads ignorance to that command, Now let him show his duty, and disband.

Amb.

His Honour, Sir, will suffer in the Cause, He yields his Arms unjust if he withdraws: And begs his Loyalty may be declar'd, By owning those he leads to be your guard.

Emp.

I, in my self, have all the Guard I need; Bid the presumptuous Boy draw off with speed: If his audacious Troops one hour remain, My Cannon from the Fort shall scour the Plain.

Amb.

Since you deny him entrance, he demands His Wife, whom cruelly you hold in Bands: Her, if unjustly you from him detain, He justly will by force of Arms regain.

Emp.

O'r him, and his, a right from Heav'n I have; Subject, and Son, he's doubly born my Slave. But whatsoe'r his own demerits are, Tell him, I shall not make on Women, War. And yet I'll do her Innocence the grace, To keep her here, as in the safer place. But thou, who dar'st this bold defiance bring, May'st feel the rage of an offended King. Hence from my sight, without the least reply: One word, nay, one look more, and thou shalt die.

Exit Ambassador.

Re-enter Arimant.

Arim.

May Heav'n, great Monarch, still augment your bliss With length of days, and every day like this. For, from the Banks of Gemna news is brought, Your Army has a bloudy Battel fought: Darah from Loyal Aureng-Zebe is fled; And fourty thousand of his Men lie dead. To Sujah next your conquering Army drew; Him they surpris'd, and easily o'r-threw.

Emp.

'Tis well.

Arim.

But well! what more could at your wish be done, Than two such Conquests gain'd by such a Son? Your pardon, mighty Sir;

You seem not high enough your Joys to rate; You stand indebted a vast sum to Fate: And should large thanks for the great Blessing pay.

Emp.

My fortune owes me greater every day. And, should my joy more high for this, appear, It would have argu'd me before of fear. How is Heav'n kind, where I have nothing won, And Fortune onely pays me with my own?

Arim.

Great Aureng-Zebe did duteous care express: And durst not push too far his good success. But lest Morat the City should attack, Commanded his victorious Army back; Which, left to march as swiftly as they may, Himself comes first, and will be here this day, Before a close-form'd Siege shut up his way.

Emp.

Prevent his purpose, hence, hence with all thy speed. Stop him; his entrance to the Town forbid.

Arim.

How, Sir? your Loyal, your Victorious Son?

Emp.

Him would I, more than all the Rebels, shun.

Arim.

Whom with your pow'r and fortune, Sir, you trust; Now to suspect is vain, as 'tis unjust. He comes not with a Train to move your fear, But trusts himself, to be a pris'ner here. You knew him brave, you know him faithful now: He aims at Fame, but Fame from serving you. 'Tis said, Ambition in his breast does rage: Who would not be the Hero of an Age? All grant him prudent: prudence interest weighs, And interest bids him seek your love and praise. I know you grateful; When he march'd from hence, You bad him hope an ample recompence: He conquer'd in that hope; and from your hands, His Love, the precious pledge he left, demands.

Emp.

No more; you search too deep my wounded mind: And show me what I fear, and would not find. My Son has all the debts of duty paid: Our Prophet sends him to my present aid.

Such virtue to distrust were base and low: I'm not ungrateful— or I was not so! Inquire no farther, stop his coming on: I will not, cannot, dare not see my Son.

Arim.

'Tis now too late his entrance to prevent: Nor must I to your ruine give consent. At once your Peoples heart and Son's you lose: And give him all, when you just things refuse.

Emp.

Thou lov'st me sure; thy faith has oft been tri'd, In ten pitch'd Fields, not shrinking from my side, Yet giv'st me no advice to bring me ease.

Arim.

Can you be cur'd, and tell not your disease? I ask'd you, Sir.

Emp.

—Thou should'st have ask'd again: There hangs a secret shame on guilty men. Thou shouldst have pull'd the secret from my breast, Torn out the bearded Steel to give me rest: At least, thou should'st have ghess'd— Yet thou art honest, thou could'st near have ghess'd. Hast thou been never base? did Love ne'r bend Thy frailer Virtue, to betray thy Friend? Flatter me, make thy Court, and say, It did: Kings in a Crowd would have their Vices hid. We would be kept in count'nance, sav'd from shame: And own'd by others who commit the same. Nay, now I have confess'd. — Thou seest me naked, and without disguise: I look on Aureng-Zebe with Rivals eyes. He has abroad my enemyes o'recome, And I have sought to ruin him at home.

Arim.

This free confession showes you long did strive: And virtue, though opprest, is still alive. But what success did your injustice find?

Emp.

What it deserv'd, and not what I design'd. Unmov'd she stood, and deaf to all my prayers, As Seas and Winds to sinking Mariners. But Seas grow calm, and Winds are reconcil'd: Her Tyrant beauty never grows more mild.

Pray'rs, promises, and threats were all in vain.

Arim.

Then cure your self by generous disdain.

Emp.

Virtue, disdain, despair, I oft have tri'd, And foil'd, have with new Arms my Foe defi'd This made me with so little joy to hear The Victory, when I the Victor fear.

Arim.

Something you swiftly must resolve to do, Lest Aureng-Zebe your secret Love should know. Morat without does for your ruine wait; And would you lose the Buckler of your State? A jealous Empress lies within your Arms, Too haughty to endure neglected Charms. Your Son is duteous, but (as Man) he's frail. And just revenge o'r vertue may prevail.

Emp.

Go then to Indamora, say from me, Two Lives depend upon her secresie. Bid her conceal my passion from my Son. Though Aureng-Zebe return a Conqueror, Both he and she are still within my pow'r. Say, I'm a Father, but a Lover too: Much to my Son, more to my self I owe. When she receives him, to her words give Law: And even the kindness of her glances awe. See, he appears!

After a short whisper, Arimant departs.

Enter Aureng-Zebe, Dianet, and Attendants. AurengZebe kneels to his Father, and kisses his hand.

Aur.

My Vows have been successful as my Sword: My pray'rs are heard, you have your health restor'd. Once more 'tis given me to behold your face: The best of Kings and Fathers to embrace. Pardon my tears; 'tis joy which bids 'em flow, A joy which never was sincere till now. That which my Conquest gave I could not prize; Or 'twas imperfect till I saw your eyes.

Emp.

Turn the discourse: I have a reason why I would not have you speak so tenderly. Knew you what shame your kind expressions bring, You would in pity spare a wretched King.

Aur.

A King! you rob me, Sir, of half my due: You have a dearer name, a Father too.

Emp.

I had that name.

Aur.

— What have I said or done, That I no longer must be call'd your Son? 'Tis in that name, Heav'n knows, I glory more, Than that of Prince, or that of Conqueror.

Emp.

Then you upbraid me; I am pleas'd to see You're not so perfect, but can fail, like me. I have no God to deal with.

Aur.

—Now I find Some slie Court-Devil has seduc'd your mind: Fill'd it with black suspicions, not your own: And all my actions through false Optics shown. I ne'r did Crowns ambitiously regard: Honour I sought, the generous mind's reward. Long may you live! while you the Sceptre sway I shall be still most happy to obey.

Emp.

Oh, Aureng-Zebe! thy virtues shine too bright, They flash too fierce: I, like the Bird of Night, Shut my dull eyes, and sicken at the sight. Thou hast deserv'd more love than I can show: But 'tis thy fate to give, and mine to owe. Thou seest me much distemper'd in my mind: Pull'd back, and then push'd forward to be kind. Virtue, and — fain I would my silence break, But have not yet the confidence to speak. Leave me, and to thy needful rest repair.

Aur.

Rest is not suiting with a Lover's care. I have not yet my Indamora seen.

Is going.

Emp.

Somewhat I had forgot; come back again: So weary of a Father's company!

Aur.

Sir, you were pleas'd your self to license me.

Emp.

You made me no relation of the Fight. Besides, a Rebel's Army is in sight. Advise me first: yet go— He goes to Indamora; I should take

Aside.

A kind of envious joy to keep him back. Yet to detain him makes my love appear: I hate his presence, and his absence fear.

Exit.

Aur.

To some new Clime, or to thy native Sky. Oh friendless and forsaken Virtue flie. Thy Indian Air is deadly to thee grown: Deceit and canker'd malice rule thy Throne. Why did my Arms in Battel prosp'rous prove, To gain the barren praise of Filial love? The best of Kings by Women is misled, Charm'd by the Witchcraft of a second Bed. Against my self I Victories have wonn, And by my fatal absence am undone.

To him Indamora, with Arimant.

But here she comes! In the calm Harbour of whose gentle breast, My Tempest-beaten Soul may safely rest. Oh, my heart's joy! what e'r my sorrows be, They cease and vanish, in beholding thee! Care shuns thy walks; as at the cheerful light, The groaning Ghosts, and Birds obscene take flight. By this one view, all my past pains are paid: And all I have to come more easie made.

Ind.

Such sullen Planets at my Birth did shine, They threaten every Fortune mixt with mine. Fly the pursuit of my disastrous love, And from unhappy Neighbourhood remove.

Aur.

Bid the laborious Hind, Whose hardned hands did long in Tillage toil, Neglect the promis'd Harvest of the Soil. Should I, who cultivated Love with Bloud, Refuse possession of approaching good?

Ind.

Love is an aery good Opinion makes: Which he who onely thinks he has, partakes. Seen by a strong Imagination's Beam; That tricks and dresses up the gaudy Dream. Presented so, with rapture 'tis enjoy'd: Rais'd by high Fancy, and by low destroy'd.

Aur.

If Love be Vision, mine has all the fire Which, in first Dreams, young Prophets does inspire: I dream, in you, our promis'd Paradice: An Ages tumult of continu'd bliss. But you have still your happiness in doubt: Or else 'tis past, and you have dream't it out.

Ind.

Perhaps not so.

Aur.

—Can Indamora prove So alter'd? Is it but, Perhaps you Love? Then farewell all! I thought in you to find A Balm, to cure my much distemper'd mind. I came to grieve a Father's heart estrang'd; But little thought to find a Mistris chang'd. Nature her self is chang'd to punish me: Virtue turn'd Vice, and Faith Inconstancy.

Ind.

You heard me not Inconstancy confess: 'Twas but a Friend's advice to love me less. Who knows what adverse Fortune may befall? Arm well your mind: hope little, and fear all. Hope, with a goodly prospect, feeds your Eye: Shows, from a rising ground, possession nigh: Shortens the distance, or o'r-looks it quite: So easie 'tis to travel with the sight▪

Aur.

Then to despair you would my Love betray, By taking hope, its last kind Friend, away. You hold the Glass, but turn the Perspective; And farther off the lessen'd Object drive. You bid me fear: in that your change I know: You would prepare me for the coming blow. But, to prevent you, take my last Adieu; I'll sadly tell my self you are untrue, Rather than stay to hear it told by you▪

Going.

Ind.

Stay, Aureng-Zebe, I must not let you go. And yet believe your self, your own worst Foe, Think I am true, and seek no more to know. Let in my breast the fatal Secret lie, 'Tis a sad Riddle, which, if known, we die.

Seeming to pause.

Aur.

Fair Hypocrite, you seek to cheat in vain; Your silence argues you ask time to feign. Once more, farewel: the snare in sight is laid, 'Tis my own fault if I am now betray'd.

Going again.

Ind.

Yet once more stay; you shall believe me true, Though in one Fate I wrap my self and you. Your absence—

Arim.

— Hold; you know the hard Command I must obey: you onely can withstand Your own mishap. I beg you on my Knee, Be not unhappy by your own Decree.

Aur.

Speak, Madam, by (if that be yet an Oath) Your Love, I'm pleas'd we should be ruin'd both. Both is a sound of joy. In Death's dark Bow'rs our Bridals we will keep: And his cold hand Shall draw the Curtain when we go to sleep.

Ind.

Know then, that Man whom both of us did trust, Has been to you unkind, to me unjust. The Guardian of my Faith so false did prove, As to sollicite me with lawless Love: Pray'd, promis'd, threaten'd, all that Man could do, Base as he's great; and need I tell you who?

Aur.

Yes; for I'll not believe my Father meant: Speak quickly, and my impious thoughts prevent.

Ind.

Yo've said; I wish I could some other name!

Arim.

My duty must excuse me, Sir, from blame. A Guard there.

Enter Guards.

Aur.

—Slave, for me?

Arim.

—My Orders are To seize this Princess, whom the Laws of War Long since made Prisoner.

Aur.

—Villain.

Arim.

—Sir, I know Your Birth, nor durst another call me so.

Aur.

I have redeem'd her; and as mine she's free.

Arim.

You may have right to give her liberty: But with your Father, Sir, that right dispute; For his commands to me were absolute; If she disclos'd his love, to use the right Of War, and to secure her from your sight.

Aur.

I'll rescue her, or die.

Draws.

And you, my friends, though few, are yet too brave To see your Gen'rals Mistris made a Slave.

All draw.

Ind.

Hold, my dear Love! if so much pow'r there lies, As once you own'd, in Indamora's Eyes, Lose not the Honour you have early wonn; But stand the blameless pattern of a Son. My love your claim inviolate secures: 'Tis writ in Fate, I can be onely yours. My suff'rings for you make your heart my due: Be worthy me, as I am worthy you.

Aur.

(Putting up his sword.)

I've thought, and bless'd be you who gave me time: My Virtue was surpris'd into a Crime. Strong Virtue, like strong Nature, struggles still: Exerts it self, and then throws off the ill. I to a Son's and Lover's praise aspire: And must fulfil the parts which both require. How dear the cure of jealousie has cost! With too much care and tenderness y'are lost. So the fond Youth from Hell redeem'd his Prize, Till▪ looking back, she vanish'd from his eyes!

Exeunt severally.