The Prince of Parthia: A Tragedy

KING, ARSACES, VARDANES, EVANTHE, LYSIAS.

King. Evanthe!-- See pleasure's goddess deigns to dignify The happy scene, and make our bliss complete. So Venus, from her heav'nly seat, descends To bless the gay Cythera with her presence; A thousand smiling graces wait the goddess, A thousand little loves are flutt'ring round, And joy is mingl'd with the beauteous train.

Evanthe. O! Royal Sir, thus lowly to the ground I bend, in humble gratitude, accept My thanks, for this thy goodness, words are vile T' express the image of my lively thought, And speak the grateful fulness of my heart. All I can say, is that I now am happy, And that thy giving hand has made me blest.

King. O! rise, Evanthe rise, this lowly posture Suits not with charms like thine, they should command, And ev'ry heart exult in thy behests;-- But, where's thy aged Sire?

Evanthe. This sudden turn Of fortune has so wrought upon his frame, His limbs could not support him to thy presence.

Arsaces. This, this is truly great, this is the Hero, Like heav'n, to scatter blessings 'mong mankind And e'er delight in making others happy. Cold is the praise which waits the victor's triumph (Who thro' a sea of blood has rush'd to glory), To the o'erflowings of a grateful heart, By obligations conquer'd: Yet, extend Thy bounty unto me. [_Kneels._

King. Ha! rise Arsaces.

Arsaces. Not till you grant my boon.

King. Speak, and 'tis thine-- Wide thro' our kingdom let thy eager wishes Search for some jewel worthy of thy seeing; Something that's fit to show the donor's bounty, And by the glorious sun, our worship'd God, Thou shalt not have denial; e'en my crown Shall gild thy brows with shining beams of Empire. With pleasure I'll resign to thee my honours, I long for calm retirement's softer joys.

Arsaces. Long may you wear it, grant it bounteous heav'n, And happiness attend it; 'tis my pray'r That daily rises with the early sweets Of nature's incense, and the lark's loud strain. 'Tis not the unruly transport of ambition That urges my desires to ask your crown; Let the vain wretch, who prides in gay dominion, Who thinks not of the great ones' weighty cares, Enjoy his lofty wish, wide spreading rule. The treasure which I ask, put in the scale, Would over-balance all that Kings can boast, Empire and diadems.

King. Away, that thought-- Name it, haste--speak.

Arsaces. For all the dang'rous toil, Thirst, hunger, marches long that I've endur'd, For all the blood I've in thy service spent, Reward me with Evanthe.

King. Ha! what said'st thou?--

Vardanes. The King is mov'd, and angry bites his lip.-- Thro' my benighted soul all-cheering hope [_Aside._ Beams, like an orient sun, reviving joy.

Arsaces. The stern Vonones ne'er could boast a merit But loving her.

King. Ah! curse the hated name-- Yes, I remember when the fell ruffian Directed all his fury at my life; Then sent, by pitying heav'n, t' assert the right Of injur'd Majesty, thou, Arsaces, Taught him the duty he ne'er knew before, And laid the Traitor dead.

Arsaces. My Royal Sire!

Lysias. My Liege, the Prince still kneels.

King. Ha!--rebel, off-- [_Strikes him._ What, Lysias, did I strike thee? forgive my rage-- The name of curs'd Vonones fires my blood, And gives me up to wrath.--

Lysias. I am your slave, Sway'd by your pleasure--when I forget it, May this keen dagger, which I mean to hide Deep in his bosom, pierce my vitals thro'. [_Aside._

King. Didst thou not name Evanthe?

Arsaces. I did, my Lord! And, say, whom should I name but her, in whom My soul has center'd all her happiness? Nor canst thou blame me, view her wond'rous charms, She's all perfection; bounteous heav'n has form'd her To be the joy, and wonder of mankind; But language is too vile to speak her beauties. Here ev'ry pow'r of glowing fancy's lost: Rose blush secure, ye lilies still enjoy Your silver whiteness, I'll not rob your charms To deck the bright comparison; for here It sure must fail.

King. He's wanton in her praise-- [_Aside._ I tell thee, Prince, hadst thou as many tongues, As days have wasted since creation's birth, They were too few to tell the mighty theme.

Evanthe. I'm lost! I'm lost! [_Aside._

Arsaces. Then I'll be dumb for ever.

King. O rash and fatal oath! is there no way, No winding path to shun this precipice, But must I fall and dash my hopes to atoms? In vain I strive, thought but perplexes me, Yet shews no hold to bear me up--now, hold My heart a while--she's thine--'tis done.

Arsaces. In deep Prostration, I thank my Royal Father.

King. A sudden pain shoots thro' my trembling breast-- Lend me thy arm Vardanes--cruel pow'rs!