The Prince Of Parthia Part 17

LYSIAS.

Ha! am I robb'd of all my hopes of vengeance, Shall I then calmly stand with all my wrongs, And see another bear away revenge?

QUEEN.

For what can Lysias ask revenge, to bar His Queen of hers?

LYSIAS.

Was I not scorn'd, and spurn'd, With haughty insolence? like a base coward Refus'd what e'er I ask'd, and call'd a boaster?

My honour sullied, with opprobrious words, Which can no more its former brightness know, 'Til, with his blood, I've wash'd the stains away.

Say, shall I then not seek for glorious vengeance?

QUEEN.

And what is this, to the sad Mother's griefs, Her hope cut off, rais'd up with pain and care?

Hadst thou e'er supported the lov'd Prattler?

Hadst thou like me hung o'er his infancy, Wasting in wakeful mood the tedious night, And watch'd his sickly couch, far mov'd from rest, Waiting his health's return?--Ah! hadst thou known The parent's fondness, rapture, toil and sorrow, The joy his actions gave, and the fond wish Of something yet to come, to bless my age, And lead me down with pleasure to the grave, Thou wouldst not thus talk lightly of my wrongs.

But I delay--

LYSIAS.

To thee I then submit.

Be sure to wreck a double vengeance on him; If that thou knowst a part in all his body, Where pain can most be felt, strike, strike him there-- And let him know the utmost height of anguish.

It is a joy to think that he shall fall, Tho' 'tis another hand which gives the blow.

SCENE IV.

_ARSACES and BETHAS._

ARSACES.

Why should I linger out my joyless days, When length of hope is length of misery?

Hope is a coz'ner, and beguiles our cares, Cheats us with empty shews of happiness, Swift fleeting joys which mock the faint embrace; We wade thro' ills pursuing of the meteor, Yet are distanc'd still.

BETHAS.

Ah! talk not of hope-- Hope fled when bright Astraea spurn'd this earth, And sought her seat among the s.h.i.+ning G.o.ds; Despair, proud tyrant, ravages my breast, And makes all desolation.

ARSACES.

How can I Behold those rev'rent sorrows, see those cheeks Moist with the dew which falls from thy sad eyes, Nor imitate distraction's frantic tricks, And chace cold lifeless reason from her throne?

I am the fatal cause of all this sorrow, The spring of ills,--to know me is unhappiness;-- And mis'ry, like a hateful plague, pursues My wearied steps, and blasts the springing verdure.

BETHAS.

No;--It is I that am the source of all, It is my fortune sinks you to this trouble; Before you shower'd your gentle pity on me, You shone the pride of this admiring world.-- Evanthe springs from me, whose fatal charms Produces all this ruin.--Hear me heav'n!

If to another love she ever yields, And stains her soul with spotted falsehood's crime, If e'en in expectation tastes a bliss, Nor joins Arsaces with it, I will wreck My vengeance on her, so that she shall be A dread example to all future times.

ARSACES.

Oh! curse her not, nor threaten her with anger, She is all gentleness, yet firm to truth, And blest with ev'ry pleasing virtue, free From levity, her s.e.x's character.

She scorns to chace the turning of the wind, Varying from point to point.

BETHAS.

I love her, ye G.o.ds!

I need not speak the greatness of my love, Each look which straining draws my soul to hers Denotes unmeasur'd fondness; but mis'ry, Like a fretful peevish child, can scarce tell What it would wish, or aim at.

ARSACES.

Immortals, hear!

Thus do I bow my soul in humble pray'r-- Thou, King of beings, in whose breath is fate, Show'r on Evanthe all thy choicest blessings, And bless her with excess of happiness; If yet, there is one bliss reserv'd in store, And written to my name, oh! give it her, And give me all her sorrows in return.

BETHAS.

'Rise, 'rise my Prince, this goodness o'erwhelms me, She's too unworthy of so great a pa.s.sion.

ARSACES.

I know not what it means, I'm not as usual, Ill-boding cares, and restless fears oppress me, And horrid dreams disturb, and fright, my slumbers; But yesternight, 'tis dreadful to relate, E'en now I tremble at my waking thoughts, Methought, I stood alone upon the sh.o.r.e, And, at my feet, there roll'd a sea of blood, High wrought, and 'midst the waves, appear'd my Father, Struggling for life; above him was Vardanes, Pois'd in the air, he seem'd to rule the storm, And, now and then, would push my Father down, And for a s.p.a.ce he'd sink beneath the waves, And then, all gory, rise to open view, His voice in broken accents reach'd my ear, And bade me save him from the b.l.o.o.d.y stream; Thro' the red billows eagerly I rush'd, But sudden woke, benum'd with chilling fear.

BETHAS.

Most horrible indeed!--but let it pa.s.s, 'Tis but the offspring of a mind disturb'd, For sorrow leaves impressions on the fancy, Which shew most fearful to us lock'd in sleep.

ARSACES.

Thermusa! ha!--what can be her design?

She bears this way, and carries in her looks An eagerness importing violence.

Retire--for I would meet her rage alone.

SCENE V.

_ARSACES and QUEEN._

ARSACES.

What means the proud Thermusa by this visit, Stoops heav'n-born pity to a breast like thine?

Pity adorns th' virtuous, but ne'er dwells Where hate, revenge, and rage distract the soul.

Sure, it is hate that hither urg'd thy steps, To view misfortune with an eye of triumph.

I know thou lov'st me not, for I have dar'd To cross thy purposes, and, bold in censure, Spoke of thy actions as they merited.

Besides, this hand 'twas slew the curs'd Vonones.

QUEEN.