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38

—Heav'n never made thy beauties to destroy,

They were to bless, and not to blast mankind;

Pity should dwell within thy lovely breast,

That sacred temple ne'er was form'd for hate

A habitation; but a residence

For love and gaiety.

. Oh! heav'ns!

. That sigh,

Proclaims your kind consent to save Arsaces.

(Laying hold of her.)

. Ha! villain, off—unhand me—hence—

. In vain is opportunity to those, who spend

An idle courtship on the fair, they well

Deserve their fate, if they 're disdain'd;—her charms

To rush upon, and conquer opposition,

Gains the Fair one's praise; an active lover

Suits, who lies aside the coxcomb's empty whine,

And forces her to bliss.

. Ah! hear me, hear me,

Thus kneeling, with my tears, I do implore thee:

Think on my innocence, nor force a joy

Which will ever fill thy soul with anguish.

Seek not to load my ills with infamy,

Let me not be a mark for bitter scorn,

To bear proud virtue's taunts and mocking jeers,

And like a flow'r, of all its sweetness robb'd,

Be trod to earth, neglected and disdain'd,

And spurn'd by ev'ry vulgar saucy foot.

. Speak, speak forever—music 's in thy voice,

Still attentive will I listen to thee,

Be hush'd as night, charm'd with the magic sound.

. Oh! teach me, heav'n, soft moving eloquence,

To bend his stubborn soul to gentleness.—

Where is thy virtue? Where thy princely lustre?

Ah! wilt thou meanly stoop to do a wrong,

And stain thy honour with so foul a blot?

Thou who shouldst be a guard to innocence.

Leave force to brutes—for pleasure is not found

Where still the soul 's averse; horror and guilt,

Distraction, desperation chace her hence.

Some happier gentle Fair one you may find,

Whose yielding heart may bend to meet your flame,

In mutual love soft joys alone are found;

When souls are drawn by secret sympathy,

And virtue does on virtue smile.

. No more—

Her heav'nly tongue will charm me from th' intent—

Hence coward softness, force shall make me blest.

. Assist me, ye bless't pow'rs!—oh! strike, ye Gods!

Strike me, with thunder dead, this moment, e'er

I suffer violation—

. 'T is in vain,

The idle pray'rs by fancy'd grief put up,

Are blown by active winds regardless by,

Nor ever reach the heav'ns.

. Arm, arm, my Lord!—

. Damnation! why this interruption now?—

. Oh! arm! my noble Prince, the foe 's upon us.

Arsaces, by Barzaphernes releas'd,

Join'd with the citizens, assaults the Palace,

And swears revenge for Artabanus' death.

. Ha! what? revenge for Artabanus' death?—

'T is the curse of Princes that their counsels,

Which should be kept like holy mysteries,

Can never rest in silent secrecy.

Fond of employ, some cursed tattling tongue

Will still divulge them.

. Sure some fiend from hell,

In mischief eminent, to cross our views,

Has giv'n th' intelligence, for man could not.

. Oh! ever blest event!— All-gracious heav'n!

This beam of joy revives me.