Evanthe.
Oh! teach me, heav'n, soft moving eloquence,
To bend his stubborn soul to gentleness.—
Where is thy virtue? Where thy princely lustre?
Ah! wilt thou meanly stoop to do a wrong,
And stain thy honour with so foul a blot?
Thou who shouldst be a guard to innocence.
Leave force to brutes—for pleasure is not found
Where still the soul's averse; horror and guilt,
Distraction, desperation chace her hence.
Some happier gentle Fair one you may find,
Whose yielding heart may bend to meet your flame,
In mutual love soft joys alone are found;
When souls are drawn by secret sympathy,
And virtue does on virtue smile.
Vardanes.
No more—
Her heav'nly tongue will charm me from th' intent—
Hence coward softness, force shall make me blest.
Evanthe.
Assist me, ye bless't pow'rs!—oh! strike, ye Gods!
Strike me, with thunder dead, this moment, e'er
I suffer violation—
Vardanes.
'Tis in vain,
The idle pray'rs by fancy'd grief put up,
Are blown by active winds regardless by,
Nor ever reach the heav'ns.
Scene II.
Vardanes, Evanthe and Lysias.