Aur. How vain is virtue, which directs our ways
Through certain danger to uncertain praise! 
Barren, and airy name! thee fortune flies,
With thy lean train, the pious and the wise. 
Heaven takes thee at thy word, without regard,
And lets thee poorly be thy own reward. 
The world is made for the bold impious man,
Who stops at nothing, seizes all he can. 
Justice to merit does weak aid afford;
She trusts her balance, and neglects her sword. 
Virtue is nice to take what’s not her own;
And, while she long consults, the prize is gone.

  To him DIANET.

Dia. Forgive the bearer of unhappy news: 
Your altered father openly pursues
Your ruin; and, to compass his intent,
For violent Morat in haste has sent. 
The gates he ordered all to be unbarred,
And from the market-place to draw the guard.

Aur. How look the people in this turn of state?

Dia. They mourn your ruin as their proper fate;
Cursing the empress:  For they think it done
By her procurement, to advance her son. 
Him too, though awed, they scarcely can forbear: 
His pride they hate, his violence they fear. 
All bent to rise, would you appear their chief,
Till your own troops come up to your relief.

Aur. Ill treated, and forsaken, as I am,
I’ll not betray the glory of my name: 
’Tis not for me, who have preserved a state,
To buy an empire at so base a rate.

Dia. The points of honour poets may produce;
Trappings of life, for ornament, not use: 
Honour, which only does the name advance,
Is the mere raving madness of romance. 
Pleased with a word, you may sit tamely down;
And see your younger brother force the crown.

Aur. I know my fortune in extremes does lie;
The sons of Indostan must reign, or die;
That desperate hazard courage does create,
As he plays frankly, who has least estate;
And that the world the coward will despise,
When life’s a blank, who pulls not for a prize.

Dia. Of all your knowledge, this vain fruit you have, To walk with eyes broad open to your grave.

Aur. From what I’ve said, conclude, without reply,
I neither would usurp, nor tamely die. 
The attempt to fly, would guilt betray, or fear: 
Besides, ’twere vain; the fort’s our prison here. 
Somewhat I have resolved. 
Morat, perhaps, has honour in his breast;
And, in extremes, both counsels are the best. 
Like emp’ric remedies, they last are tried,
And by the event condemned, or justified. 
Presence of mind, and courage in distress,
Are more than armies, to procure success. [Exeunt.

ACT III.  SCENE I.

  ARIMANT, with a letter in his hand: INDAMORA.

Arim. And I the messenger to him from you? 
Your empire you to tyranny pursue: 
You lay commands, both cruel and unjust,
To serve my rival, and betray my trust.