None, none believe me. I'll ne'er oppress thy love with fearful doubt-- A little nigher--let me lean upon thee-- And thou be my support--for now I mean T' unbosom to thee free without restraint: Search all the deep recesses of my soul, And open ev'ry darling thought before thee, Which long I've secreted with jealous care. Pray, mark me well. VARDANES. I will, my Royal Sire. KING. On Anna thus reclin'd the love-sick Dido; Thus to her cheek laid hers with gentle pressure, And wet her sister with a pearly show'r, Which fell from her sad eyes, then told her tale, While gentle Anna gave a pitying tear, And own'd 'twas moving--thou canst pity too, I know thy nature tender and engaging. VARDANES. Tell me, my gracious Lord, what moves you thus? Why is your breast distracted with these tumults? Teach me some method how to sooth your sorrows, And give your heart its former peace and joy; Instruct thy lov'd Vardanes.-- KING. Yes, I'll tell thee; But listen with attention while I speak; And yet I know 'twill shock thy gentle soul, And horror o'er thee 'll spread his palsy hand. O, my lov'd Son! thou fondness of my age! Thou art the prop of my declining years, In thee alone I find a Father's joy, Of all my offspring: but Arsaces-- VARDANES. Ha! My Brother!-- KING. Ay--why dost start?--thy Brother Pursues me with his hate: and, while warm life Rolls the red current thro' my veins, delights To see me tortur'd; with an easy smile He meets my suff'rings, and derides my pain. VARDANES. Oh! KING. What means that hollow groan?--Vardanes, speak, Death's image fits upon thy pallid cheek, While thy low voice sounds as when murmurs run Thro' lengthen'd vaults-- VARDANES. O! my foreboding thoughts. [_Aside._ 'Twas this disturb'd my rest; when sleep at night Lock'd me in slumbers; in my dreams I saw My Brother's crime--yet, death!--it cannot be-- KING. Ha!--what was that?-- VARDANES. O! my dread Lord, some Villain Bred up in lies, and train'd to treach'ry, Has injur'd you by vile reports, to stain My Princely Brother's honour. KING. Thou know'st more, Thy looks confess what thou in vain wouldst hide-- And hast thou then conspir'd against me too, And sworn concealment to your practices?-- Thy guilt-- VARDANES. Ha! guilt!--what guilt?-- KING. Nay, start not so-- I'll know your purposes, spite of thy art. VARDANES. O! ye great Gods! and is it come to this?-- My Royal Father call your reason home, Drive these loud passions hence, that thus deform you. My Brother--Ah! what shall I say?--My Brother Sure loves you as he ought. KING.