Mel. Woe, bitt'rest woe, impends; thou wouldst not think——
Eup. How? speak! unfold.
Mel. My tongue denies its office.
Eup. How is my father? Say, Melanthon——
Mel. He,
I fear to shock thee with the tale of horror!
Perhaps he dies this moment.—Since Timoleon
First form'd his lines round this beleagur'd city,
No nutriment has touch'd Evander's lips.
In the deep caverns of the rock imprison'd
He pines in bitterest want.
Eup. Well, my heart,
Well do your vital drops forget to flow.
Mel. Despair, alas! is all the sad resource
Our fate allows us now.
Eup. Yet, why despair?
Is that the tribute to a father due?
Blood is his due, Melanthon; yes, the blood,
The vile, black blood, that fills the tyrant's veins,
Would graceful look upon my dagger's point.
Come, vengeance, come, shake off the feeble sex,
Sinew my arm, and guide it to his heart.
And thou, O filial piety, that rul'st
My woman's breast, turn to vindictive rage;
Assume the port of justice; show mankind
Tyrannic guilt hath never dar'd in Syracuse,
Beyond the reach of virtue.
Mel. Moderate your zeal,
Nor let him hear these transports of the soul,
These wild upbraidings.
Eup. Shall Euphrasia's voice
Be hush'd to silence, when a father dies?
Shall not the monster hear his deeds accurst?
Shall he not tremble, when a daughter comes,
Wild with her griefs, and terible with wrongs;
Fierce in despair, all nature in her cause
Alarm'd and rous'd with horror?
Melanthon come; my wrongs will lend me force;
The weakness of my sex is gone; this arm
Feels tenfold strength; this arm shall do a deed
For Heav'n and earth, for men and gods to wonder at!
This arm shall vindicate a father's cause.