worn
Eternal constancy, and endless love,
Yet ev'ry time was perjur'd.

KING.

Sure, 'tis frenzy.

QUEEN.

Indeed, 'tis frenzy, 'tis the height of madness,
For I have wander'd long in sweet delusion.
At length the pleasing Phantom chang'd its form,
And left me in a wilderness of woe.

KING.

Prithee, no more, dismiss those jealous heats;
Love must decay, and soon disgust arise,
Where endless jarrings and upbraidings damp
The gentle flame, which warms the lover's breast.

QUEEN.

Oh! grant me patience heav'n! and dost thou think
By these reproaches to disguise thy guilt?
No, 'tis in vain, thy art's too thin to hide it.

KING.

Curse on the marriage chain!--the clog, a wife,
Who still will force and pall us with the joy,
Tho' pow'r is wanting, and the will is cloy'd,
Still urge the debt when Nothing's left to pay.

QUEEN.

Ha! dost thou own thy crime, nor feel the glow
Of conscious shame?

KING.

Why should I blush, if heav'n
Has made me as I am, and gave me passions?
Blest only in variety, then blame
The Gods, who form'd my nature thus, not me.

QUEEN.

Oh! Traitor! Villain!

KING.

Hence--away--
No more I'll wage a woman's war with words. [_Exit._

QUEEN.

Down, down ye rising passions, give me ease,
Or break my heart, for I must yet be calm--
But, yet, revenge, our Sex's joy, is mine;
By all the Gods! he lives not till the morn.
Who slights my love, shall sink beneath my hate.

SCENE III.

_QUEEN and VARDANES._

VARDANES.

What, raging to the tempest?

QUEEN.

Away!--away!--
Yes, I will rage--a tempest's here within,
Above the trifling of the noisy elements.
Blow ye loud winds, burst with your violence,
For ye but barely imitate the storm
That wildly rages in my tortur'd breast--
The King--the King--

VARDANES.

Ha! what?--the King?

QUEEN.

Evanthe!

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' atten