He views thy sacred life with envious hate,
As 'tis a bar to his ambitious hopes.
On the bright throne of Empire his plum'd wishes
Seat him, while on his proud aspiring brows
He feels the pleasing weight of Royalty.
But when he wakes from these his airy dreams
(Delusions form'd by the deceiver hope,
To raise him to the glorious height of greatness),
Then hurl him from proud Empire to subjection.
Wild wrath will quickly swell his haughty breast,
Soon as he finds 'tis but a shadowy blessing.—
'Twas fav'ring accident discover'd to me
All that I know; this Evening as I stood
Alone, retir'd, in the still gallery,
That leads up to th' appartment of my Brother,
T' indulge my melancholy thoughts,—
King.
Proceed—
Vardanes.
A wretch approach'd with wary step, his eye
Spoke half his tale, denoting villany.
In hollow murmurs thus he question'd me—
Was I the Prince?—I answer'd to content him—
Then in his hand he held this paper forth.
"Take this," says he, "this Bethas greets thee with,
Keep but your word our plot will meet success."
I snatch'd it with more rashness than discretion,
Which taught him his mistake. In haste he drew,
And aim'd his dagger at my breast, but paid
His life, a forfeit, for his bold presuming.
King.
O Villain! Villain!
Vardanes.
Here, read this, my Lord—
I read it, and cold horror froze my blood.
And shook me like an ague.
King.