Evanthe.
Cease—this sorrow pains me more
Than all the wringing agonies of death,
The dreadful parting of the soul from, this,
Its wedded clay—Ah! there—that pang shot thro'
My throbbing heart—
Arsaces.
Save her, ye Gods!—oh! save her!
And I will bribe ye with clouds of incense;
Such num'rous sacrifices, that your altars
Shall even sink beneath the mighty load.
Evanthe.
When I am dead, dissolv'd to native dust,
Yet let me live in thy dear mem'ry—
One tear will not be much to give Evanthe.
Arsaces.
My eyes shall e'er two running fountains be,
And wet thy urn with overflowing tears,
Joy ne'er again within my breast shall find
A residence—Oh! speak, once more—
Evanthe.