The Prince Of Parthia Part 11

Ye pitying pow'rs!--oh! for a poison, some Curs'd deadly draught, that I might blast her beauties, And rob her eyes of all their fatal l.u.s.tre.

VARDANES.

What, blast her charms?--dare not to think of it-- Shocking impiety;--the num'rous systems Which gay creation spreads, bright blazing suns, With all th' attendant planets circling round, Are not worth half the radiance of her eyes.

She's heav'n's peculiar care, good spir'ts hover Round, a s.h.i.+ning band, to guard her beauties.

QUEEN.

Be they watchful then: for should remissness Taint the guard, I'll s.n.a.t.c.h the opportunity, And hurl her to destruction.

VARDANES.

Dread Thermusa, Say, what has rous'd this tumult in thy soul?

What dost thou rage with unabating fury, Wild as the winds, loud as the troubl'd sea?

QUEEN.

Yes, I will tell thee--Evanthe--curse her-- With charms--Would that my curses had the pow'r To kill, destroy, and blast where e'er I hate, Then would I curse, still curse, till death should seize The dying accents on my falt'ring tongue.

So should this world, and the false changeling man Be buried in one universal ruin.

VARDANES.

Still err'st thou from the purpose.

QUEEN.

Ha! 'tis so-- Yes I will tell thee--for I know fond fool, Deluded wretch, thou dotest on Evanthe-- Be that thy greatest curse, be curs'd like me, With jealousy and rage, for know, the King, Thy father, is thy rival.

SCENE IV.

VARDANES [_alone_].

Ha! my rival!

How knew she that?--yet stay--she's gone--my rival, What then? he is Arsaces' rival too.

Ha!--this may aid and ripen my designs-- Could I but fire the King with jealousy, And then accuse my Brother of Intrigues Against the state--ha!--join'd with Bethas, and Confed'rate with th' Arabians--'tis most likely That jealousy would urge him to belief.

I'll sink my claim until some fitter time, 'Til opportunity smiles on my purpose.

Lysias already has receiv'd the mandate For Bethas' freedom: Let them still proceed, This harmony shall change to discord soon.

Fortune methinks of late grows wond'rous kind, She scarcely leaves me to employ myself.

SCENE V.

KING, ARSACES, VARDANES.

KING.

But where's Evanthe? Where's the lovely Maid?

ARSACES.

On the cold pavement, by her aged Sire, The dear companion of his solitude, She sits, nor can persuasion make her rise; But in the wild extravagance of joy She weeps, then smiles, like April's sun, thro' show'rs.

While with strain'd eyes he gazes on her face, And cries, in ecstacy, "Ye gracious pow'rs!

It is too much, it is too much to bear!"

Then clasps her to his breast, while down his cheeks Large drops each other trace, and mix with hers.

KING.

Thy tale is moving, for my eyes o'erflow-- How slow does Lysias with Evanthe creep!

So moves old time when bringing us to bliss.

Now war shall cease, no more of war I'll have, Death knows satiety, and pale destruction Turns loathing from his food, thus forc'd on him.

The triffling dust, the cause of all this ruin, The trade of death shall urge no more.--

SCENE VI.

KING, ARSACES, VARDANES, EVANTHE, LYSIAS.

KING.

Evanthe!-- See pleasure's G.o.ddess deigns to dignify The happy scene, and make our bliss complete.

So Venus, from her heav'nly seat, descends To bless the gay Cythera with her presence; A thousand smiling graces wait the G.o.ddess, A thousand little loves are flutt'ring round, And joy is mingl'd with the beauteous train.

EVANTHE.

O! Royal Sir, thus lowly to the ground I bend, in humble grat.i.tude, accept My thanks, for this thy goodness, words are vile T' express the image of my lively thought, And speak the grateful fulness of my heart.

All I can say, is that I now am happy, And that thy giving hand has made me blest.

KING.

O! rise, Evanthe rise, this lowly posture Suits not with charms like thine, they should command, And ev'ry heart exult in thy behests;-- But, where's thy aged Sire?

EVANTHE.

This sudden turn Of fortune has so wrought upon his frame, His limbs could not support him to thy presence.

ARSACES.

This, this is truly great, this is the Hero, Like heav'n, to scatter blessings 'mong mankind And e'er delight in making others happy.

Cold is the praise which waits the victor's triumph (Who thro' a sea of blood has rush'd to glory), To the o'erflowings of a grateful heart, By obligations conquer'd: Yet, extend Thy bounty unto me. [_Kneels._

KING.

Ha! rise Arsaces.

ARSACES.

Not till you grant my boon.