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Yet I can die, and should Arsaces fall

This fatal draught shall ease me of my sorrows.

Oh! horror! horror! horror!—cruel Gods!—

I saw him fall—I did—pierc'd thro' with wounds—

Curs'd! curs'd Vardanes!—hear'd the gen'ral cry,

Which burst, as tho' all nature had dissolv'd.

Hark! how they shout! the noise seems coming this way.

. Thanks to the ruling pow'rs who blest our arms,

Prepare the sacrifices to the Gods,

And grateful songs of tributary praise.—

Gotarzes, fly, my Brother, find Evanthe,

And bring the lovely mourner to my arms.

. Yes, I 'll obey you, with a willing speed.

(Exit .)

. Thou, Lysias, from yon tow'r's aspiring height

Be hurl'd to death, thy impious hands are stain'd

With royal blood—Let the traitor's body

Be giv'n to hungry dogs.

. Welcome grim death!—

I 've fed thy maw with Kings, and lack no more

Revenge—Now, do thy duty, Officer.

. Yea, and would lead all traitors gladly thus,—

The boon of their deserts.

. But for Vardanes,

The Brother's name forgot—

. You need no more,

I know the rest— Ah! death is near, my wounds

Permit me not to live—my breath grows short,

Curs'd be Phraates' arm which stop'd my sword,

Ere it had reach'd thy proud exulting heart.

But the wretch paid dear for his presuming;

A just reward.—

. He sinks, yet bear him up—

. Curs'd be the multitude which o'erpow'r'd me,

And beat me to the ground, cover'd with wounds—

But, oh! 't is done! my ebbing life is done—

I feel death's hand upon me— Yet, I die

Just as I wish, and daring for a crown,

Life without rule is my disdain; I scorn

To swell a haughty Brother's sneaking train,

To wait upon his ear with flatt'ring tales,

And court his smiles; come, death, in thy cold arms,

Let me forget Ambition's mighty toil,

And shun the triumphs of a hated Brother—

O! bear me off— Let not his eyes enjoy

My agonies— My sight grows dim with death. (They bear him off.)

. Lead me, oh! lead me, to my lov'd Arsaces,

Where is he?—

. Ha! what 's this? Just heav'ns!—my fears—

. Arsaces, oh! thus circl'd in thy arms,

I die without a pang.

. Ha! die?—why stare ye,

Ye lifeless ghosts? Have none of ye a tongue

To tell me I 'm undone?

. Soon, my Brother,

Too soon, you 'll know it by the sad effects;

And if my grief will yet permit my tongue

To do its office, thou shalt hear the tale.

Cleone, from the turret, view'd the battle,