Dart thro' my breast— Oh! burst ye cords of life—
Ha! who are ye?— Why do ye stare upon me?—
Oh!—defend me, from these bick'ring Furies!
Arsaces. Alas! her sense is lost, distressful Queen!
Queen. Help me, thou King of Gods! oh! help me! help!
See! they envir'n me round—Vonones too,
The foremost leading on the dreadful troop—
But there, Vardanes beck'ns me to shun
Their hellish rage—I come, I come!
Ah! they pursue me, with a scourge of fire.—
Scene 6.
Arsaces, alone.
Oh!—horror!—on the ground she breathless lies,
Silent, in death's cold sleep; the wall besmear'd
With brains and gore, the marks of her despair.
O guilt! how dreadful dost thou ever shew!
How lovely are the charms of innocence!
How beauteous tho' in sorrows and distress!—
Ha!—what noise?—
Scene 7.
Arsaces, Barzaphernes and Gotarzes.
Barzaphernes. At length we 've forc'd our entrance—
O my lov'd Prince! to see thee thus, indeed,
Melts e'en me to a woman's softness; see
My eyes o'erflow— Are these the ornaments
For Royal hands? rude manacles! oh shameful!
Is this thy room of state, this gloomy gaol?
Without attendance, and thy bed the pavement?
But, ah! how diff'rent was our parting last!
When flush'd with vict'ry, reeking from the slaughter,
You saw Arabia's Sons scour o'er the plain
In shameful flight, before your conqu'ring sword;
Then shone you like the God of battle.
Arsaces. Welcome!
Welcome, my loyal friends! Barzaphernes!
My good old soldier, to my bosom thus!
Gotarzes, my lov'd Brother! now I 'm happy.—
But, say, my soldier, why these threatning arms?
Why am I thus releas'd by force? my Father,
I should have said the King, had he relented,
He 'd not have us'd this method to enlarge[1] me.
Alas! I fear, too forward in your love,
You 'll brand me with the rebel's hated name.
Barzaphernes. I am by nature blunt—the soldier's manner.
Unus'd to the soft arts practis'd at courts.
Nor can I move the passions, or disguise
The sorr'wing tale to mitigate the smart.
Then seek it not: I would sound the alarm,
Loud as the trumpet's clangour, in your ears;
Nor win I hail you, as our Parthia's King,
'Til you've full reveng'd your Father's murther.
Arsaces. Murther?—good heav'n!
Barzaphernes. The tale requires some time;
And opportunity must not be lost;
Your traitor Brother, who usurps your rights,
Must, ere his faction gathers to a head,
Have from his brows his new-born honours torn.
Arsaces. What, dost thou say, murther'd by Vardanes?
Impious parricide!—detested villain!—
Give me a sword, and onward to the charge,
Stop gushing tears, for I will weep in blood,
And sorrow with the groans of dying men.—
Revenge! revenge!—oh!—all my soul's on fire!
- ↑ Free.
