_Ors_. So well, I know not whether this or thee Be most agreeable to me; You need not teach me how I am to use it, That I will leave for those that dare offend me. Look, _Geron_, is it not a glorious Object? There’s nothing but my bright _Olympia’s_ Eyes That can out-glitter this. _1 Cit_. Hah, _Simon_, did he not talk bravely? _Val_. Come, Sir, ‘tis time you left this Dungeon for a Throne; For now’s the time to make the World your own. All shouting--Vive le Roy, Vive le Roy. [_Exeunt_. SCENE IV. _A Tent_. _Enter_ Cleomena _and_ Semiris, _drest as Women again_. _Sem_. Dear Madam, I cou’d wish you’d sleep awhile. _Cleo_. That Peace I have not been acquainted with Since my _Clemanthis’. Death; Yet now methinks my Heart’s more calm and still, And I perhaps may thus expire in silence-- Prithee, _Semiris_, take thy Lute and sing to’t, Whilst I will try to sleep. [_Lies down on a Couch, Sem. plays and sings_. SONG, made by _J. Wright_ Esq: _Fair Nymph, remember all your Scorn Will be by Time repaid; Those Glories which that Face adorn, And flourish as the rising Morn, Must one day set and fade. Then all your cold Disdain for me Will but increase Deformity, When still the kind will lovely be. Compassion is of lasting Praise; For that’s the Beauty ne’er decays. Fair Nymph, avoid those Storms of Fate Are to the Cruel due; The Powers above, though ne’er so late. Can be, when they revenge your Hate, As pitiless as you. Know, charming Maid, the Powers divine Did never such soft Eyes design To wound a Heart so true as mine: That God who my dear Flame infus’d, Will never see it thus abus’d_. Return, my dear _Clemanthis_, oh, return, [Cleo. _rises as in a Dream_. And see ‘tis not into thy lovely Bosom That I have sent my Vengeance. _Sem_. What mean you, Madam? _Cleo_. But thou, poor Ghost-- Instead of hasting me to my Revenge, Endeavour’st to touch me with Compassion. _Sem_. Madam, who is’t you follow thus and speak to? _Cleo. Thersander_, why do’st rob me of that Face? Is’t to disarm me of my Indignation? _Sem_. Oh, Madam, what do you do? _Cleo_. Ha! dost thou see nothing? _Sem_. Not any thing. _Cleo_. Yonder’s the _Scythian_ with _Clemanthis’. Face, Or else _Clemanthis_ with _Thersander’s_ Wound. _Sem_. Compose your Thoughts, dear Madam, ‘twas a Dream, An idle Dream, born from a troubled Fancy. --How was it, Madam?