Eva. Still a little,
A little onward to the air conduct me;
'Tis well;—I thank thee; thou art kind and good,
And much I wonder at this gen'rous pity.
Eup. Dost thou not know me, sir?
Eva. Methinks I know
That voice: art thou—alas! my eyes are dim!
Each object swims before me—No, in truth
I do not know thee.
Eup. Not your own Euphrasia?
Eva. Art thou my daughter?
Eup. Oh! my honour'd sire!
Eva. My daughter, my Euphrasia? come to close
A father's eyes! Giv'n to my last embrace!
Gods! do I hold her once again? Your mercies
Are without number.
[Falls on the Couch.
This excess of bliss
O'erpow'rs; it kills; Euphrasia—could I hope it?
I die content—Art thou indeed my daughter?
Thou art; my hand is moisten'd with thy tears:
I pray you do not weep—thou art my child:
I thank you, gods! in my last dying moments
You have not left me—I would pour my praise;
But oh! your goodness overcomes me quite!
You read my heart; you see what passes there.
Eup. Alas, he faints! the gushing tide of transport
Bears down each feeble sense: restore him, Heaven!
Eva. All, my Euphrasia, all will soon be well.
Pass but a moment, and this busy globe,
Its thrones, its empires, and its bustling millions,
Will seem a speck in the great void of space.
Yet, while I stay, thou darling of my age!—
Nay, dry those tears.
Eup. I will, my father.