Vas. How knows your majesty?
Nin. It speaks
In all her motions. Every glance and grace
Revouches it. E’en your dull eye must know
Her beauty is immortal, though her life
Is forfeit to the clay and must have end.
Vas. Thou ’lt find another fair! Youth blooms and goes!
Nin. Not such as hers! Her brow ’s a holy page
Where chiselling Time dare never set a mark!
The sun hath been her lover, and so deep
Hath touched her locks with fire no winter hand
May shake his kisses out!
Vas. Why, thou ’rt in love!
(Confused voices without. A messenger runs in and falls at the feet of the king)
Nin. Speak, sir!
Mes. Assyria wins! The Armenians fly!
They ’ve lost their leader—
Nin. Khosrove! Is he taken?
Mes. Taken or slain, I know not which, but know
He leads no more the enemy! They fly
Before Semiramis!