Evanthe.
I'm lost! I'm lost!
[Aside.
Arsaces.
Then I'll be dumb for ever.
King.
O rash and fatal oath! is there no way,
No winding path to shun this precipice,
But must I fall and dash my hopes to atoms?
In vain I strive, thought but perplexes me,
Yet shews no hold to bear me up—now, hold
My heart a while—she's thine—'tis done.
Arsaces.
In deep
Prostration, I thank my Royal Father.
King.