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 6.
King, Arsaces, Vardanes, Evanthe, Lysias.
King. Evanthe!—
See pleasure's goddess 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 goddess,
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 gratitude, 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.
King. Speak, and 't is thine—
Wide thro' our kingdom let thy eager wishes
Search for some jewel worthy of thy seeing;
Something that 's fit to show the donor's bounty,
And by the glorious sun, our worship'd God,
Thou shalt not have denial; e'en my crown
Shall gild thy brows with shining beams of Empire.
With pleasure I 'll resign to thee my honours,
I long for calm retirement's softer joys.
Arsaces. Long may you wear it, grant it bounteous heav'n,
And happiness attend it; 't is my pray'r
That daily rises with the early sweets
Of nature's incense, and the lark's loud strain.
'T is not the unruly transport of ambition
That urges my desires to ask your crown;
Let the vain wretch, who prides in gay dominion,
Who thinks not of the great ones' weighty cares,
Enjoy his lofty wish, wide spreading rule.
The treasure which I ask, put in the scale,
Would over-balance all that Kings can boast,
Empire and diadems.
King. Away, that thought—
Name it, haste—speak.
Arsaces. For all the dang'rous toil,
Thirst, hunger, marches long that I 've endur'd,
For all the blood I 've in thy service spent,
Reward me with Evanthe.
King. Ha! what said'st thou?—
Vardanes. (Aisde.) The King is mov'd, and angry bites his lip.—
Thro' my benighted soul all-cheering hope
Beams, like an orient sun, reviving joy.
