Arsaces, oh! thus circl'd in thy arms,
I die without a pang.
Arsaces.
Ha! die?—why stare ye,
Ye lifeless ghosts? Have none of ye a tongue
To tell me I'm undone?
Gotarzes.
Soon, my Brother,
Too soon, you'll know it by the sad effects;
And if my grief will yet permit my tongue
To do its office, thou shalt hear the tale.
Cleone, from the turret, view'd the battle,
And on Phraates fix'd her erring sight,
Thy brave unhappy friend she took for thee,
By his garb deceiv'd, which like to thine he wore.
Still with her eye she follow'd him, where e'er
He pierc'd the foe, and to Vardanes' sword
She saw him fall a hapless victim, then,
In agonies of grief, flew to Evanthe,
And told the dreadful tale—the fatal bowl
I saw—
Arsaces.
Be dumb, nor ever give again
Fear to the heart, with thy ill-boding voice.
Evanthe.
Here, I'll rest, till death, on thy lov'd bosom,
Here let me sigh my—Oh! the poison works—
Arsaces.