Ind. This prologue leads to your succeeding sin:  Blood ended what ambition did begin.

Mor. ’Twas rumour’d,—­but by whom I cannot tell,—­
My father ’scaped from out the citadel;
My brother too may live.

Ind. He may?

Mor. He must: 
I kill’d him not:  and a less fate’s unjust. 
Heaven owes it me, that I may fill his room,
A phoenix-lover, rising from his tomb;
In whom you’ll lose your sorrows for the dead;
More warm, more fierce, and fitter for your bed.

Ind. Should I from Aureng-Zebe my heart divide,
To love a monster, and a parricide? 
These names your swelling titles cannot hide. 
Severe decrees may keep our tongues in awe;
But to our thoughts, what edict can give law? 
Even you yourself, to your own breast, shall tell
Your crimes; and your own conscience be your hell.

Mor. What business has my conscience with a crown? 
She sinks in pleasures, and in bowls will drown. 
If mirth should fail, I’ll busy her with cares,
Silence her clamorous voice with louder wars: 
Trumpets and drums shall fright her from the throne,
As sounding cymbals aid the labouring moon.

Ind. Repelled by these, more eager she will grow,
Spring back more strongly than a Scythian bow. 
Amidst your train, this unseen judge will wait;
Examine how you came by all your state;
Upbraid your impious pomp; and, in your ear,
Will hollow,—­“Rebel, tyrant, murderer!”
Your ill-got power wan looks and care shall bring,
Known but by discontent to be a king. 
Of crowds afraid, yet anxious when alone,
You’ll sit and brood your sorrows on a throne.

Mor. Birth-right’s a vulgar road to kingly sway;
’Tis every dull-got elder brother’s way. 
Dropt from above, he lights into a throne;
Grows of a piece with that he sits upon;
Heaven’s choice, a low, inglorious, rightful drone. 
But who by force a sceptre does obtain,
Shows he can govern that, which he could gain. 
Right comes of course, whate’er he was before;
Murder and usurpation are no more.

Ind. By your own laws you such dominion make,
As every stronger power has right to take: 
And parricide will so deform your name,
That dispossessing you will give a claim. 
Who next usurps, will a just prince appear,
So much your ruin will his reign endear.

Mor. I without guilt would mount the royal seat; But yet ’tis necessary to be great.

Ind. All greatness is in virtue understood: 
’Tis only necessary to be good. 
Tell me, what is’t at which great spirits aim,
What most yourself desire?

Mor. Renown and fame, And power, as uncontrouled as is my will.