Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/154

134 Of the mysterious number, so that lovers shall

Come hither, not as to a tomb, but to an oracle. [She knocks, and raises the Court

Orb. Come, come! help me to weep myself away,

And melt into a grave! for life is but

Repentance' nurse, and will conspire with memory

To make my hours my tortures.

Ori. What scene of sorrow's this? Both dead?

Orb. Dead? Ay,

And 'tis but half death's triumphs this: the king

And prince lie somewhere, just such empty trunks

As these.

Ori. The prince? Then in grief's burthen I

Must bear a part.

Sem. The noble Ariaspes!

Valiant Ziriff, too!

Orb. Weep'st thou for him, fond prodigal? dost know

On whom thou spend'st thy tears? This is the man

To whom we owe our ills, the false Zorannes,

Disguis'd; not lost, but kept alive by some

Incensed power, to punish Persia thus!

He would have kill'd me too; but heav'n was just,

And furnish'd me with means to make him pay

This score of vill'ny, ere he could do more.

Pas. Were you his murth'rer then? [Runs to Orbella, kills her, and flies Ori. Ah me! the queen! [They rub Orbella till she comes to herself Sem. How do you do, madam?

Orb. Well; but I was better,

And shall

Sem. O, she is gone for ever!

Ors. What have we here?

A churchyard? Nothing but silence and grave!

Ori. O, here has been, my lords, the blackest night

The Persian world e'er knew! The king and prince

Are not themselves exempt from this arrest;