But loving her.
King. Ah! curse the hated name—
Yes, I remember when the fell ruffian
Directed all his fury at my life;
Then sent, by pitying heav'n, t' assert the right
Of injur'd Majesty, thou, Arsaces,
Taught him the duty he ne'er knew before,
And laid the Traitor dead.
Arsaces. My Royal Sire!
Lysias. My Liege, the Prince still kneels.
King. Ha!—rebel, off—
(Strikes him.)
What, Lysias, did I strike thee? forgive my rage—
The name of curs'd Vonones fires my blood,
And gives me up to wrath.—
Lysias. I am your slave,
Sway'd by your pleasure—when I forget it,
May this keen dagger, which I mean to hide,
Deep in his bosom, pierce my vitals thro'.
(Aside.)
King. Did'st thou not name Evanthe?
Arsaces. I did, my Lord!
And, say, whom should I name but her, in whom
My soul has center'd all her happiness?
Nor can'st thou blame me, view her wond'rous charms,
She 's all perfection; bounteous heav'n has form'd her
To be the joy, and wonder of mankind;
But language is too vile to speak her beauties.
Here ev'ry pow'r of glowing fancy 's lost:
Rose blush secure, ye lilies still enjoy
Your silver whiteness, I 'll not rob your charms
To deck the bright comparison; for here
It sure must fail.
King. He 's wanton in her praise—
(Aside.)
I tell thee, Prince, hadst thou as many tongues,
As days have wasted since creation's birth,
They were too few to tell the mighty theme.
Evanthe. I 'm lost! I 'm lost! (Aside.)
Arsaces. Then I 'll be dumb for ever.
King. O rash and fatal oath! is there no way,
No winding path to shun this precipice,
But must I fall and dash my hopes to atoms?
In vain I strive, thought but perplexes me,
Yet shews no hold to bear me up—now, hold
My heart a while—she 's thine—'t is done.
Arsaces. In deep
Prostration, I thank my Royal Father.
King. A sudden pain shoots thro' my trembling breast—
Lend me thy arm Vardanes—cruel pow'rs!
Scene 7.
Arsaces and Evanthe.
Evanthe (After a pause.) E'er since the dawn of my unhappy life
Joy never shone serenely on my soul;
Still something interven'd to cloud my day.
Tell me, ye pow'rs, unfold the hidden crime
For which I 'm doom'd to this eternal woe,
Thus still to number o'er my hours with tears?
The Gods are just, I know, nor are decrees
In hurry shuffl'd out, but where the bolt
Takes its direction justice points the mark.
Yet still in vain I search within my breast,
I find no sins are there to shudder at—
Nought but the common frailties of our natures.
Arsaces,—Oh!—
Arsaces. Ha! why that look of anguish?
Why didst thou name me with that sound of sorrow?
Ah! say, why stream those gushing tears so fast
From their bright fountain? Sparkling joy should now
Be lighten'd in thine eye, and pleasure glow
Upon thy rosy cheek;—ye sorrows hence—
'T is love shall triumph now.
Evanthe. Oh! (Sighs.)
Arsaces. What means that sigh?
Tell me why heaves thy breast with such emotion?
