 | Demophoon |  |
SCENE IX.
Enter Creusa.Dir.
Ah! princess! ah! Creusa! grant me pity.
Thou canst not sure refuse a dying wretch,
Who, 'midst the bitterest grief, essays to move
Thy gentle heart, no stranger to compassion.
121
Who art thou? Say, what would'st thou?
Dir.
Sure my fate
Too well is known by thee: my name is Dirce;
I go to die, yet guiltless of a crime:
I ask no pity for myself, Creusa;
But save, defend the poor distress'd Timanthes:
To guard my life, he courts his own destruction.
If e'er th'entreaties of the dying move,
O! let him find in you a kind protectress!
Appease his rage, or, O! procure his pardon
For all the frantic deeds of rash despair.
Creu.
And can it be, that on the verge of death,
Thou feel'st so deeply for another's welfare.
Dir.
Enquire no further—fate decrees him thine.
Should I, alas! those ills impart
I've long been doom'd to know,
The tale would break thy tender heart
With sympathy of woe.
I've long been doom'd to know,
The tale would break thy tender heart
With sympathy of woe.
But thus with every pang opprest,
All hopeless of relief;
A rock, that pity ne'er confess'd,
Might soften at my grief.
All hopeless of relief;
A rock, that pity ne'er confess'd,
Might soften at my grief.
[Exit with the priests and guards to the temple.
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