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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 't was slew the curs'd Vonones.

. 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.

. Why gaze you on me thus? why hesitate?

Am I to die?

. Thou art—this dagger shall

Dissolve thy life, thy fleeting ghost I 'll send

To wait Vonones in the shades below.

. And even there I 'll triumph over him.

. 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—

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

. 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,

'T is all the happiness I now can know.

. 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.

. Play not thus cruel with my poor request,

But take my loving Father's thanks, and mine.

. Thy Father cannot thank me now.

. He will,

Believe me, e'en whilst dissolv'd in ecstacy

On fond Evanthe's bosom, he will pause,

One moment from his joys, to bless the deed.

. What means this tumult in my breast? from whence

Proceeds this sudden change? my heart beats high,

And soft compassion makes me less than woman:

I 'll search no more for what I fear to know.

. Why drops the dagger from thy trembling hand?

Oh! yet be kind—

. No: now I 'd have thee live,

Since it is happiness to die: 'T is pain

That I would give thee, thus I bid thee live;

Yes, I would have thee a whole age a dying,

And smile to see thy ling'ring agonies.

All day I 'd watch thee, mark each heighten'd pang,

While springing joy should swell my panting bosom;

This I would have— But should this dagger give

Thy soul the liberty it fondly wishes,

'T would soar aloft, and mock my faint revenge.

. This mildness shews most foul, thy anger lovely.

Think that 't was I who blasted thy fond hope,

Vonones now lies number'd with the dead,

And all your joys are buried in his grave;

My hand untimely pluck'd the precious flow'r,