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I know thy nature tender and engaging.

. Tell me, my gracious Lord, what moves you thus?

Why is your breast distracted with these tumults?

Teach me some method how to sooth your sorrows,

And give your heart its former peace and joy;

Instruct thy lov'd Vardanes.—

. Yes, I 'll tell thee;

But listen with attention while I speak;

And yet I know 't will shock thy gentle soul,

And horror o'er thee 'll spread his palsy hand.

O, my lov'd Son! thou fondness of my age!

Thou art the prop of my declining years,

In thee alone I find a Father's joy,

Of all my offspring: but Arsaces—

. Ha!

My Brother!—

. Ay—why dost start?—thy Brother

Pursues me with his hate: and, while warm life

Rolls the red current thro' my veins, delights

To see me tortur'd; with an easy smile

He meets my suff'rings, and derides my pain.

. Oh!

. What means that hollow groan?—Vardanes, speak,

Death's image fits upon thy pallid cheek,

While thy low voice sounds as when murmurs run

Thro' lengthen'd vaults—

. O! my foreboding thoughts.

'T was this disturb'd my rest; when sleep at night

Lock'd me in slumbers; in my dreams I saw

My Brother's crime—yet, death!—it cannot be—

. Ha!—what was that?—

. O! my dread Lord, some Villain

Bred up in lies, and train'd to treach'ry,

Has injur'd you by vile reports, to stain

My Princely Brother's honour.

. Thou know'st more,

Thy looks confess what thou in vain wouldst hide—

And hast thou then conspir'd against me too,

And sworn concealment to your practices?—

Thy guilt—

. Ha! guilt!—what guilt?—

. Nay, start not so—

I 'll know your purposes, spite of thy art.

. O! ye great Gods! and is it come to this?—

My Royal Father[,] call your reason home,

Drive these loud passions hence, that thus deform you.

My Brother— Ah! what shall I say?— My Brother

Sure loves you as he ought.

. Ha! as he ought?—

Hell blister thy evasive tongue—I 'll know it—

I will; I 'll search thy breast, thus will I open

A passage to your secrets—yet resolv'd—

Yet steady in your horrid villany—

'T is fit that I from whom such monsters sprung

No more should burthen earth— Ye Parricides!—

Here plant your daggers in this hated bosom—

Here rive my heart, and end at once my sorrows,

I gave ye being, that 's the mighty crime.

. I can no more—here let me bow in anguish—

Think not that I e'er join'd in his designs,

Because I have conceal'd my knowledge of them:

I meant, by pow'rful reason's friendly aid,

To turn him from destruction's dreadful path,

And bring him to a sense of what he ow'd

To you as King and Father.

. Say on—I 'll hear.

. He views thy sacred life with envious hate,

As 't is a bar to his ambitious hopes.

On the bright throne of Empire his plum'd wishes

Seat him, while on his proud aspiring brows

He feels the pleasing weight of Royalty.

But when he wakes from these his airy dreams

(Delusions form'd by the deceiver hope,

To raise him to the glorious height of greatness),

Then hurl him from proud Empire to subjection.