Lysias.
I am your slave,
Sway'd by your pleasure—when I forget it,
May this keen dagger, which I mean to hide
Deep in his bosom, pierce my vitals thro'.
[Aside.
King.
Didst thou not name Evanthe?
Arsaces.
I did, my Lord!
And, say, whom should I name but her, in whom
My soul has center'd all her happiness?
Nor canst thou blame me, view her wond'rous charms,
She's all perfection; bounteous heav'n has form'd her
To be the joy, and wonder of mankind;
But language is too vile to speak her beauties.
Here ev'ry pow'r of glowing fancy's lost:
Rose blush secure, ye lilies still enjoy
Your silver whiteness, I'll not rob your charms
To deck the bright comparison; for here
It sure must fail.
King.
He's wanton in her praise—
[Aside.