Vardanes.
Ha!
My Brother!—
King.
Ay—why dost start?—thy Brother
Pursues me with his hate: and, while warm life
Rolls the red current thro' my veins, delights
To see me tortur'd; with an easy smile
He meets my suff'rings, and derides my pain.
Vardanes.
Oh!
King.
What means that hollow groan?—Vardanes, speak,
Death's image fits upon thy pallid cheek,
While thy low voice sounds as when murmurs run
Thro' lengthen'd vaults—
Vardanes.
O! my foreboding thoughts.