, now,
Like light'ning, piercing thro' the thickest foe,
Then scorning to disgrace his sword in low
Plebeian blood--loud for Vardanes call'd--
To meet him singly, and decide the war.

EVANTHE.

Save him, ye Gods!--oh! all my soul is fear--
Fly, fly Cleone, to the tow'r again,
See how fate turns the ballance; and pursue
Arsaces with thine eye; mark ev'ry blow,
Observe if some bold villain dares to urge
His sword presumptuous at my Hero's breast.
Haste, my Cleone, haste, to ease my fears.

SCENE VI.

EVANTHE [_alone_].

Ah!--what a cruel torment is suspense!
My anxious soul is torn 'twixt love and fear,
Scarce can I please me with one fancied bliss
Which kind imagination forms, but reason,
Proud, surly reason, snatches the vain joy,
And gives me up again to sad distress.
Yet I can die, and should Arsaces fall
This fatal draught shall ease me of my sorrows.

SCENE VII.

CLEONE [_alone_].

Oh! horror! horror! horror!--cruel Gods!--
I saw him fall--I did--pierc'd thro' with wounds--
Curs'd! curs'd Vardanes!--hear'd the gen'ral cry,
Which burst, as tho' all nature had dissolv'd.
Hark! how they shout! the noise seems coming this way.

SCENE VIII.

_ARSACES, GOTARZES, BARZAPHERNES and OFFICERS, with VARDANES and
LYSIAS, prisoners._

ARSACES.

Thanks to the ruling pow'rs who blest our arms,
Prepare the sacrifices to the Gods,
And grateful songs of tributary praise.--
Gotarzes, fly, my Brother, find Evanthe,
And bring the lovely mourner to my arms.

GOTARZES.

Yes, I'll obey you, with a willing speed. [_Exit GOTARZES._

ARSACES.

Thou, Lysias, from yon tow'r's aspiring height
Be hurl'd to death, thy impious hands are stain'd
With royal blood--Let the traitor's body
Be giv'n to hungry dogs.

LYSIAS.

Welcome, grim death!--
I've fed thy maw with Kings, and lack no more
Revenge--Now, do thy duty, Officer.

OFFICER.

Yea, and would lead all traitors gladly thus,--
The boon of their deserts.

SCENE IX.

ARSACES, VARDANES, BARZAPHERNES.

ARSACES.

But for Vardanes,
The Brother's name forgot--

VARDANES.

You need no more,
I know the rest--Ah! death is near, my wounds
Permit me not to live--my breath grows short,
Curs'd be Phraates' arm which stop'd my sword,
Ere it had reach'd thy proud exulting heart.
But the wretch paid dear for his presuming;
A just reward.--

ARSACES.