Before its shining beauties were display'd.
Queen. O Woman! Woman! where 's thy resolution?
Where 's thy revenge? Where 's all thy hopes of vengeance?
Giv'n to the winds— Ha! is it pity?—No—
I fear it wears another softer name.
I'll think no more, but rush to my revenge,
In spite of foolish fear, or woman's softness;
Be steady now my soul to thy resolves.
Yes, thou shalt die, thus, on thy breast, I write
Thy instant doom—ha!—ye Gods!
Arsaces. Why this pause?
Why dost thou idly stand like imag'd vengeance,
With harmless terrors threatning on thy brow,
With lifted arm, yet canst not strike the blow?
Queen. It surely was the Echo to my fears,
The whistling wind, perhaps, which mimick'd voice;
But thrice methought it loudly cry'd, "forbear."
Imagination hence—I 'll heed thee not—
(Ghost of Artabanus rises.)
Save me—oh!—save me—ye eternal pow'rs!—
See!—see it comes, surrounded with dread terrors—
Hence—hence! nor blast me with that horrid sight—
Throw off that shape, and search th' infernal rounds
For horrid forms, there 's none can shock like thine.
Ghost. No; I will ever wear this form, thus e'er
Appear before thee; glare upon thee thus,
'Til desperation, join'd to thy damn'd crime,
Shall wind thee to the utmost height of frenzy.
In vain you grasp the dagger in your hand,
In vain you dress your brows in angry frowns,
In vain you raise your threatning arm in air,
Secure, Arsaces triumphs o'er your rage.
Guarded by fate, from thy accurs'd revenge,
Thou canst not touch his life; the Gods have giv'n
A softness to thy more than savage soul
Before unknown, to aid their grand designs.
Fate yet is lab'ring with some great event,
But what must follow I'm forbid to broach—
Think, think of me, I sink to rise again,
To play in blood before thy aching sight,
And shock thy guilty soul with hell-born horrors—
Think, think of Artabanus! and despair—
Queen. Think of thee, and despair?—yes, I 'll despair—
Yet stay,—oh! stay, thou messenger of fate!
Tell me— Ha! 'tis gone— and left me wretched—
Arsaces. Your eyes seem fix'd upon some dreadful object,
Horror and anguish clothe your whiten'd face,
And your frame shakes with terror; I hear you speak
As seeming earnest in discourse, yet hear
No second voice.
Queen. What! saw'st thou nothing?
Arsaces. Nothing.
Queen. Nor hear'd?—
Arsaces. Nor hear'd.
Queen. Amazing spectacle!—
Cold moist'ning dews distil from ev'ry pore,
I tremble like to palsied age— Ye Gods!
Would I could leave this loath'd detested being!—
Oh! all my brain's on fire—I rave! I rave!—
(Ghost rises again.)
Ha! it comes again—see, it glides along—
See, see, what streams of blood flow from its wounds!
A crimson torrent— Shield me, oh! shield me, heav'n.—
Arsaces. Great, and righteous Gods!—
Queen. Ah! frown not on me—
Why dost thou shake thy horrid locks at me?
Can I give immortality?—'t is gone—
(Ghost sinks.)
It flies me, see, ah!—stop it, stop it, haste—
Arsaces. Oh, piteous sight!—
Queen. Hist! prithee, hist!—oh death!
