Queen.
Think of thee, and despair?—yes, I'll despair—
Yet stay,—oh! stay, thou messenger of fate!
Tell me—Ha! 'tis gone—and left me wretched—
Arsaces.
Your eyes seem fix'd upon some dreadful object,
Horror and anguish clothe your whiten'd face,
And your frame shakes with terror; I hear you speak
As seeming earnest in discourse, yet hear
No second voice.
Queen.
What! saw'st thou nothing?
Arsaces.
Nothing.
Queen.
Nor hear'd?—