The Prince of Parthia: A Tragedy

KING, ARSACES, VARDANES.

King. But where's Evanthe? Where's the lovely Maid?

Arsaces. On the cold pavement, by her aged Sire, The dear companion of his solitude, She sits, nor can persuasion make her rise; But in the wild extravagance of joy She weeps, then smiles, like April's sun, thro' show'rs. While with strain'd eyes he gazes on her face, And cries, in ecstacy, "Ye gracious pow'rs! It is too much, it is too much to bear!" Then clasps her to his breast, while down his cheeks Large drops each other trace, and mix with hers.

King. Thy tale is moving, for my eyes o'erflow-- How slow does Lysias with Evanthe creep! So moves old time when bringing us to bliss. Now war shall cease, no more of war I'll have, Death knows satiety, and pale destruction Turns loathing from his food, thus forc'd on him. The triffling dust, the cause of all this ruin, The trade of death shall urge no more.--