Then cut the finger off to gain the ring,
And plung’d him back to periſh in the waves;
Crying, go dive for more.—I’ve heard him boaſt
Of this adventure.
In the 5th act, when Herod is agitated with the rage of jealouſy, his brother Pheroras thus addreſes him,
Sir, let her crime
Eraſe the faithful characters which love
Imprinted on your heart,
Herod. Alas! the pain
We feel, whene’er we diſpoſſeſs the ſoul
Of that tormenting tyrant, far exceeds
The rigour of his rule.
Pheroras. With reaſon quell
That haughty paſſion; treat it as your ſlave:
Reſume the monarch.
The obſervation, which Herod makes upon this, is very affecting. The poet has drawn him ſo tortured with his paſſion, that he ſeems almoſt ſufficiently puniſhed, for the barbarity of cutting off the father and brother of Mariamne,
Herod. Where’s the monarch now?
The vulgar call us gods, and fondly think
That kings are caſt in more than mortal molds;
Alas! they little know that when the mind
Is cloy’d with pomp, our taſte is pall’d to joy;
But grows more ſenſible of grief or pain.
The ſtupid peaſant with as quick a ſenſe
Enjoys the fragrance of a roſe, as I;
And his rough hand is proof againſt the thorn,
Which rankling in my tender ſkin, would ſeem
A viper’s tooth. Oh bliſsful poverty!
