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Nor imitate distraction's frantic tricks,

And chace cold lifeless reason from her throne?

I am the fatal cause of all this sorrow,

The spring of ills,—to know me is unhappiness;—

And mis'ry, like a hateful plague, pursues

My wearied steps, and blasts the springing verdure.

. No;—It is I that am the source of all,

It is my fortune sinks you to this trouble;

Before you shower'd your gentle pity on me,

You shone the pride of this admiring world.—

Evanthe springs from me, whose fatal charms

Produces all this ruin.—Hear me heav'n!

If to another love she ever yields,

And stains her soul with spotted falsehood's crime,

If e'en in expectation tastes a bliss,

Nor joins Arsaces with it, I will wreck

My vengeance on her, so that she shall be

A dread example to all future times.

. Oh! curse her not, nor threaten her with anger,

She is all gentleness, yet firm to truth,

And blest with ev'ry pleasing virtue, free

From levity, her sexes character.

She scorns to chace the turning of the wind,

Varying from point to point.

. I love her, ye Gods!

I need not speak the greatness of my love,

Each look which straining draws my soul to hers

Denotes unmeasur'd fondness; but mis'ry,

Like a fretful peevish child, can scarce tell

What it would wish, or aim at.

. Immortals, hear!

Thus do I bow my soul in humble pray'r—

Thou, King of beings, in whose breath is fate,

Show'r on Evanthe all thy choicest blessings,

And bless her with excess of happiness;

If yet, there is one bliss reserv'd in store,

And written to my name, oh! give it her,

And give me all her sorrows in return.

. 'Rise, 'rise my Prince, this goodness o'erwhelms me,

She 's too unworthy of so great a passion.

. I know not what it means, I 'm not as usual,

Ill-boding cares, and restless fears oppress me,

And horrid dreams disturb, and fright, my slumbers;

But yesternight, 't is dreadful to relate,

E'en now I tremble at my waking thoughts,

Methought, I stood alone upon the shore,

And, at my feet, there roll'd a sea of blood,

High wrought, and 'midst the waves, appear'd my Father,

Struggling for life; above him was Vardanes,

Pois'd in the air, he seem'd to rule the storm,

And, now and then, would push my Father down,

And for a space he 'd sink beneath the waves,

And then, all gory, rise to open view,

His voice in broken accents reach'd my ear,

And bade me save him from the bloody stream;

Thro' the red billows eagerly I rush'd,

But sudden woke, benum'd with chilling fear.

. Most horrible indeed!—but let it pass,

'T is but the offspring of a mind disturb'd,

For sorrow leaves impressions on the fancy,

Which shew most fearful to us lock'd in sleep.

. Thermusa! ha!—what can be her design?

She bears this way, and carries in her looks

An eagerness importing violence.

Retire—for I would meet her rage alone.

. 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.