Qu. ‘Tis not Clemanthis, but my Cleomena— With whom Thersander fights—ah, cruel Child; [They carry her off.
Ther. Oh, whither, whither do you bear my Goddess?
Return, and here resign your sacred Load,
That whilst’t has Life it may behold the Sacrifice
That I will make of this wild wretched Man
That has so much offended—Disobey’d!
—My Arms, my Arms, Lysander, mount me strait,
And let me force the disobedient Troops;
Those Coward-Slaves that could behold her bleed,
And not revenge her on the Murderer:
Quickly my Arms, kill, burn, and scatter all;
Whilst ‘midst the Ruins of the World I fall.
[The Scythian Guards carry him off by force.
Enter Ismenes with his Sword. They all descend.
Ism. Still thus defeated and outstript by Fate,
Resolv’d betimes, but sallied out too late;
Fortune and Love are equally unkind:
—Who can resist those mighty Powers combin’d?
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. A Prison.
Enter Orsames, Geron.
Ger. May I not know what ‘tis afflicts you so? You were not wont to hide your Soul from me.
Ors. Nor wou’d I now, knew I but how to tell thee;
Oh, Geron, thou hast hitherto so frighted me
With thoughts of Death, by Stories which thou tell’st
Of future Punishment i’th’ other World,
That now I find thou’st brought me to endure
Those Ills from Heaven thou say’st our Sins procure.
There’s not a little God of all the Number
That does not exercise his Arts on me,
And practise Power, which by my suffering
He grows more mighty in—I’ll not endure it.
Ger. Why not, as well as I?