Isil. I humbly beg, my Lord, you would forbear.
Alcip. Oh Isillia,
Thou knowest not what vast Treasure this incloses,
This sacred Pile; is there no Sorrow due to it?
Alas, I bad her not farewel at parting.
Nor did receive so much as one poor Kiss.
—Ah wretched, wretched Man!
Enter the Prince.
How, the Prince!
How suddenly my Grief submits to Rage.
Phi. Alcippus, why dost thou gaze thus on me? What Horror have I in my looks that frights thee?
Alcip. Why, Sir, what makes you here?
I have no more Wives, no more Erminias;
Alas, she is dead—
Will you not give her leave to rest in peace?
Phi. Is this the Gratitude you pay my Favours,
That gave ye life, after your wrongs to me?
But ‘twas my Sister’s Kindness that preserv’d thee
And I prefer’d my Vengeance to the Gods.
Alcip. Your Sister is a Saint whom I adore; But I refuse a Life that comes from you.
Isil. What mean you, Sir?
Alcip. To speak a truth, as dying Men should do.