Vardanes. You talk like riddles, still obscure and short,
Give me some cue to guide me thro' this maze.
Queen. Ye pitying pow'rs!—oh! for a poison, some
Curs'd deadly draught, that I might blast her beauties,
And rob her eyes of all their fatal lustre.
Vardanes. What, blast her charms?—dare not to think of it—
Shocking impiety;—the num'rous systems
Which gay creation spreads, bright blazing suns,
With all th' attendant planets circling round,
Are not worth half the radiance of her eyes.
She 's heav'n's peculiar care, good spir'ts hover
Round, a shining band, to guard her beauties.
Queen. Be they watchful then: for should remissness
Taint the guard, I 'll snatch the opportunity,
And hurl her to destruction.
Vardanes. Dread Thermusa,
Say, what has rous'd this tumult in thy soul?
What dost thou rage with unabating fury,
Wild as the winds, loud as the troubl'd sea?
Queen. Yes, I will tell thee—Evanthe—curse her—
With charms— Would that my curses had the pow'r
To kill, destroy, and blast where e'er I hate,
Then would I curse, still curse, till death should seize
The dying accents on my falt'ring tongue.
So should this world, and the false changeling man
Be buried in one universal ruin.
Vardanes. Still err'st thou from the purpose.
Queen. Ha! 't is so—
Yes I will tell thee—for I know[,] fond fool,
Deluded wretch, thou dotest on Evanthe—
Be that thy greatest curse, be curs'd like me,
With jealousy and rage, for know, the King,
Thy father, is thy rival.
Scene 4.
Vardanes, alone.
Ha! my rival!
How knew she that?—yet stay—she 's gone—my rival,
What then? he is Arsaces' rival too.
Ha!—this may aid and ripen my designs—
Could I but fire the King with jealousy,
And then accuse my Brother of Intrigues
Against the state—ha!—join'd with Bethas, and
Confed'rate with th' Arabians—'t is most likely
That jealousy would urge him to belief.
I 'll sink my claim until some fitter time,
'Til opportunity smiles on my purpose.
Lysias already has receiv'd the mandate
For Bethas' freedom: Let them still proceed,
This harmony shall change to discord soon.
Fortune methinks of late grows wond'rous kind,
She scarcely leaves me to employ myself.
Scene 5.
King, Arsaces, Vardanes.
King. But where 's Evanthe? Where 's the lovely Maid?
Arsaces. On the cold pavement, by her aged Sire,
The dear companion of his solitude,
She sits, nor can persuasion make her rise;
But in the wild extravagance of joy
She weeps, then smiles, like April's sun, thro' show'rs.
While with strain'd eyes he gazes on her face,
And cries, in ecstacy, "Ye gracious pow'rs!
It is too much, it is too much to bear!"
Then clasps her to his breast, while down his cheeks
Large drops each other trace, and mix with hers.
King. Thy tale is moving, for my eyes o'erflow—
How slow does Lysias with Evanthe creep!
So moves old time when bringing us to bliss.
