Chrysanthus.
Confused I stay,
Without power to go away,
Spirit-bound, my feet not free.
From the instant that on me,
As a sudden beam might dart,
Flashed that form which Phidian art
Could not reach, I 've known no rest.—
Babylon is in my breast—
Troy is burning in my heart.
Escarpin.
Strange that I should feel as you,
That one thought should fire us two,
I too, sir, have lost my senses
Since I saw that lady.
Chrysanthus.
Who,
Madman! fool! do you speak of? you!
Dare to feel those griefs of mine!—
Escarpin.
No, sir, yours I quite resign,
Would I could my own ones too!—
Chrysanthus.
Leave me, or my wrath you 'll rue;
Hence! buffoon: by heaven I swear it,
I will kill you else.
Escarpin.