Arcab. They're Fools who preach we waste our Days and Strength;
What is a Life, whose only Charm is Length?
Give me a Life that's short, and wing'd with Joy,
A Life of Love, whose Minutes never cloy:
What is an Age in dull Renown drudg'd o'er?
One little single Hour of Love is more.
An Attendant enters hastily, and whispers Arcalaus.
Arcal. See it perform'd———And thou shalt be,
Dire Instrument of Hell, a God to me.
He comes, he comes, just ready to be caught.
Here Ardan fell, here on this fatal Spot
Our Brother dy'd; here flow'd that precious Gore,
The purple Flood, that cries so loud for more:
Think on that Image, see him on the Ground,
His Life and Fame both bury'd in one Wound.
Think on the Murderer, with insulting Pride
Tearing the Weapon from his bleeding Side,
Oh think———
Arcab. What need these bloody Images to move?
Revenge I will———And would secure my Love.
Why shou'd I of a Frailty shameful be,
From which no Mortal yet was ever free?
Not fierce Medea, Mistress of our Art,
Nor Circe, nor Calypso 'scap'd the Smart.
