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Rh And fill their ears with murmurs of the deed:

Whisper all is not well, blow up the sparks

Of discord, and it soon will flame to rage.

. Haste, and shew me to the Prince Arsaces,

Delay not, see the signet of Vardanes.

. Royal Thermusa, why this eagerness?

This tumult of the soul?—what means this dagger?

Ha!— I suspect—

. Hold—for I 'll tell thee, Lysias.

'T is—oh! I scarce can speak the mighty joy—

I shall be greatly blest in dear revenge,

'T is vengeance on Arsaces—yes, this hand

Shall urge the shining poniard to his heart,

And give him death—yea, give the ruffian death;

So shall I smile on his keen agonies.

. 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?

. For what can Lysias ask revenge, to bar

His Queen of hers?

. 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?

. 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—

. To thee I then submit.

Be sure to wreck a double vengeance on him;

If that thou knowest 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' 't is another hand which gives the blow.

. 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.

. Ah! talk not of hope—

Hope fled when bright Astræa spurn'd this earth,

And sought her seat among the shining Gods;

Despair, proud tyrant, ravages my breast,

And makes all desolation.

. How can I

Behold those rev'rent sorrows, see those cheeks

Moist with the dew which falls from thy sad eyes,