 | Zenobia |  |
SCENE I.
The open country, with Ægle's cottage.Tiridates, Mithranes.
Tir.
But if myself I saw her? If myself
Heard her but now? Yes, still her living form
Is plac'd before my eyes; her well-known voice
Still vibrates on my heart—Zenobia lives!
I dreamt it not, Mithranes.
Mit.
Lovers, sir,
Even waking dream—Affliction clouds the sense
And blunts our reason: what is not, we see;
And what is present oft eludes our sight.
The soul, from habit, figures to herself
The ideas that delight us.—Each with ease
Will feign what most he wishes.
Tir.
No: these feet
Had trac'd her steps, but that the cruel sight
Of my Zenobia, arm'd to pierce her bosom,
Froze all my vital powers.
Mit.
O! think, my prince,
Think of the duties which your rank demands.
The Armenians offer you their vacant throne,
And ask, for this, the head of Rhadamistus.
Embrace the moment of propitious Fortune:
You know too well her favours never last.
25
Let Rhadamistus then be sought; the traitor
Shall meet his punishment. But think not, friend,
The bright reward of royalty incites
The zeal of Tiridates; no, I burn
To slay a victim to Zenobia's wrongs.
Mit.
Then still you cherish hope?
Tir.
But late I question'd
A gentle shepherdess, her name is Ægle:
Behold her cottage here; from her we best
May learn more certain tidings.
Mit.
But what said
The maid when question'd?
Tir.
Nothing she replied.
Mit.
And yet you hope?
Tir.
I do—At what I ask'd
She seem'd confus'd: she look'd on me and blush'd.
She strove to speak—began as if to explain
Her secret thoughts, then sunk again to silence.
Mit.
Alas! how little will suffice to feed
A lover's hopes.
Tir.
I'll speak again with Ægle;
Go, lead her to me.
Mit.
Instant I obey.
[goes into the cottage.
Tir.
What cruel conflict now of hope and fear
Divides my breast! No other state on earth
Can equal what I feel.
26
[returning.]
The shepherdess
Is absent thence, and vacant now the dwelling.
Tir.
I'll wait for her return.—Go, seek the camp.
Mit.
Your care is vain: the bloody robe which late
These eyes beheld—
Tir.
Cruel, unkind Mithranes,
What have I done?—O! take not from me thus
The last dear hope—At least—
Mit.
Too oft, my prince,
You know that hope is with deception join'd.
[Exit.
| Zenobia | |