Thanks to the ruling pow'rs who blest our arms, Prepare the sacrifices to the Gods, And grateful songs of tributary praise.-- Gotarzes, fly, my Brother, find Evanthe, And bring the lovely mourner to my arms. GOTARZES. Yes, I'll obey you, with a willing speed. [_Exit GOTARZES._ ARSACES. Thou, Lysias, from yon tow'r's aspiring height Be hurl'd to death, thy impious hands are stain'd With royal blood--Let the traitor's body Be giv'n to hungry dogs. LYSIAS. Welcome, grim death!-- I've fed thy maw with Kings, and lack no more Revenge--Now, do thy duty, Officer. OFFICER. Yea, and would lead all traitors gladly thus,-- The boon of their deserts. SCENE IX. ARSACES, VARDANES, BARZAPHERNES. ARSACES. But for Vardanes, The Brother's name forgot-- VARDANES. You need no more, I know the rest--Ah! death is near, my wounds Permit me not to live--my breath grows short, Curs'd be Phraates' arm which stop'd my sword, Ere it had reach'd thy proud exulting heart. But the wretch paid dear for his presuming; A just reward.-- ARSACES. He sinks, yet bear him up-- VARDANES. Curs'd be the multitude which o'erpow'r'd me, And beat me to the ground, cover'd with wounds-- But, oh! 'tis done! my ebbing life is done-- I feel death's hand upon me--Yet, I die Just as I wish, and daring for a crown, Life without rule is my disdain; I scorn To swell a haughty Brother's sneaking train, To wait upon his ear with flatt'ring tales, And court his smiles; come, death, in thy cold arms, Let me forget Ambition's mighty toil, And shun the triumphs of a hated Brother-- O! bear me off--Let not his eyes enjoy My agonies--My sight grows dim with death. [_They bear him off._ SCENE (_the Last_). _ARSACES, GOTARZES, BARZAPHERNES, and EVANTHE supported._ EVANTHE. Lead me, oh! lead me, to my lov'd Arsaces. Where is he?-- ARSACES. Ha! what's this?--Just heav'ns!--my fears-- EVANTHE. 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.