14
TAMERLANE.
Ax.Give it way,The niggard Honour, that affords not Love,Forbids not Pity———
Sel.Fate perhaps has setThis Day, the Period of thy Life, and Conquests,And I shall see thee born at Evening back,A breathless Coarse;———Oh! Can I think on thatAnd hide my Sorrows?—No—they will have way,And all the Vital Air, that Life draws in,Is render'd back in Sighs.
Ax.The murmuring Gale revives the drooping Flame,That at thy Coldness languish'd in my Breast;So breath the gentle Zephyrs on the Spring,And waken every Plant, and od'rous Flower,Which Winter Frosts had blasted, to new life.
Sel.To see thee for this moment, and no more———Oh! help me to resolve against this Tenderness,That charms my fierce Resentments, and presents theeNot as thou art, mine, and my Father's Foe,But as thou wert, when first thy moving AccentsWon me to hear; when, as I listn'd to thee,The happy Hours past by us unperceiv'd,So was my Soul fix'd to the soft Enchantment.
Ax.Let me be still the same, I am, I must be.If it were possible my Heart could stray,One Look from thee would call it back again,And fix the Wanderer for ever thine.
Sel.Where is my boasted Resolution now?[Sinking into his Arms.Oh! Yes! Thou art the same; my Heart joins with thee,And to betray me will believe thee still:It dances to the Sounds that mov'd it first,And owns at once the weakness of my Soul:So when some skilful Artist strikes the Strings,The magick numbers rouse our sleeping Passions,And force us to confess our Grief, and Pleasure.Alas! Axalla, say———dost thou not pityMy artless Innocence, and easy Fondness?
Oh!
