Ye figur'd stones! Ye senseless, lifeless images of men, Who never gave a tear to others' woe, Whose bosoms never glow'd for others' good, O weary heav'n with your repeated pray'rs, And strive to melt the angry pow'rs to pity, That ye may truly live. EVANTHE. Oh! how my heart Beats in my breast, and shakes my trembling frame! I sink beneath this sudden flood of joy, Too mighty for my spirits. ARSACES. My Evanthe, Thus in my arms I catch thy falling beauties, Chear thee; and kiss thee back to life again: Thus to my bosom I could ever hold thee, And find new pleasure. EVANTHE. O! my lov'd Arsaces, Forgive me that I saw thee not before, Indeed my soul was busily employ'd, Nor left a single thought at liberty. But thou, I know, art gentleness and love. Now I am doubly paid for all my sorrows, For all my fears for thee. ARSACES. Then, fear no more: Give to guilty wretches painful terrors: Whose keen remembrance raises horrid forms, Shapes that in spite of nature shock their souls With dreadful anguish: but thy gentle bosom, Where innocence beams light and gayety, Can never know a fear, now shining joy Shall gild the pleasing scene. EVANTHE. Alas! this joy I fear is like a sudden flame shot from Th' expiring taper, darkness will ensue, And double night I dread enclose us round. Anxiety does yet disturb my breast, And frightful apprehension shakes my soul. BETHAS. How shall I thank you, ye bright glorious beings! Shall I in humble adoration bow, Or fill the earth with your resounding praise? No, this I leave to noisy hypocrites, A Mortal's tongue disgraces such a theme; But heav'n delights where silent gratitude Mounts each aspiring thought to its bright throne, Nor leaves to language aught; words may indeed From man to man their sev'ral wants express, Heav'n asks the purer incense of the heart. ARSACES. I'll to the King, ere he retires to rest, Nor will I leave him 'til I've gain'd your freedom; His love will surely not deny me this. SCENE VIII. _VARDANES and LYSIAS come forward._ LYSIAS. 'Twas a moving scene, e'en my rough nature Was nighly melted. VARDANES. Hence coward pity-- What is joy to them, to me is torture. Now am I rack'd with pains that far exceed Those agonies, which fabling Priests relate, The damn'd endure: The shock of hopeless Love, Unblest with any views to sooth ambition, Rob me of all my reas'ning faculties. Arsaces gains Evanthe, fills the throne, While I am doom'd to foul obscurity, To pine and grieve neglected. LYSIAS. My noble Prince, Would it not be a master-piece, indeed, To make this very bliss their greatest ill, And damn them in the very folds of joy? VARDANES. This I will try, and stretch my utmost art, Unknown is yet the means--We'll think on that-- Success may follow if you'll lend your aid. LYSIAS.