Queen.
Evanthe!
Vardanes.
You talk like riddles, still obscure and short,
Give me some cue to guide me thro' this maze.
Queen.
Ye pitying pow'rs!—oh! for a poison, some
Curs'd deadly draught, that I might blast her beauties,
And rob her eyes of all their fatal lustre.
Vardanes.
What, blast her charms?—dare not to think of it—
Shocking impiety;—the num'rous systems
Which gay creation spreads, bright blazing suns,
With all th' attendant planets circling round,
Are not worth half the radiance of her eyes.
She's heav'n's peculiar care, good spir'ts hover
Round, a shining band, to guard her beauties.
Queen.
Be they watchful then: for should remissness
Taint the guard, I'll snatch the opportunity,
And hurl her to destruction.