Arsaces.
I'll to the King, ere he retires to rest,
Nor will I leave him 'til I've gain'd your freedom;
His love will surely not deny me this.
Scene VIII.
Vardanes and Lysias come forward.
Lysias.
'Twas a moving scene, e'en my rough nature
Was nighly melted.
Vardanes.
Hence coward pity—
What is joy to them, to me is torture.
Now am I rack'd with pains that far exceed
Those agonies, which fabling Priests relate,
The damn'd endure: The shock of hopeless Love,
Unblest with any views to sooth ambition,
Rob me of all my reas'ning faculties.
Arsaces gains Evanthe, fills the throne,
While I am doom'd to foul obscurity,
To pine and grieve neglected.
Lysias.
My noble Prince,
Would it not be a master-piece, indeed,
To make this very bliss their greatest ill,
And damn them in the very folds of joy?