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.

And darst thou insolent to name Vonones?
To heap perdition on thy guilty soul?
There needs not this to urge me to revenge--
But let me view this wonder of mankind,
Whose breath can set the bustling world in arms.
I see no dreadful terrors in his eye,
Nor gathers chilly fears around my heart,
Nor strains my gazing eye with admiration,
And, tho' a woman, I can strike the blow.

ARSACES.

Why gaze you on me thus? why hesitate?
Am I to die?

QUEEN.

Thou art--this dagger shall
Dissolve thy life, thy fleeting ghost I'll send
To wait Vonones in the shades below.

ARSACES.

And even there I'll triumph over him.

QUEEN.

O, thou vile homicide! thy fatal hand
Has robb'd me of all joy; Vonones, to
Thy Manes this proud sacrifice I give.
That hand which sever'd the friendship of thy
Soul and body, shall never draw again
Imbitt'ring tears from sorr'wing mother's eyes.
This, with the many tears I've shed, receive

[_Offers to stab him._

Ha!--I'd strike; what holds my hand?--'tis n't pity.

ARSACES.

Nay, do not mock me, with the shew of death,
And yet deny the blessing; I have met
Your taunts with equal taunts, in hopes to urge
The blow with swift revenge; but since that fails,
I'll woo thee to compliance, teach my tongue
Persuasion's winning arts, to gain thy soul;
I'll praise thy clemency, in dying accents
Bless thee for, this, thy charitable deed.
Oh! do not stand; see, how my bosom heaves
To meet the stroke; in pity let me die,
'Tis all the happiness I now can know.

QUEEN.

How sweet the eloquence of dying men!
Hence Poets feign'd the music of the Swan,
When death upon her lays his icy hand,
She melts away in melancholy strains.

ARSACES.

Play not thus cruel with my poor request,
But take my loving Father's thanks, and mine.

QUEEN.

Thy Father cannot thank me now.

ARSACES.

He will,
Believe me, e'en whilst