 | Zenobia |  |
SCENE IX.
Ægle, Mithranes.Ægl.
Unhappy prince! O! how my bosom feels
For all his sufferings! How that pleasing aspect,
His eye's soft glance, the music of his words
Command each heart to share with him in sorrow;
A lover form'd like him, alas! deserves
Far other fate.—O! that 'twere given to Ægle
To make his days more happy!
Mit.
Doubtless Ægle
Displays a feeling mind, and Tiridates
Is worthy all her pity: but such feeling
Is warmer sure than mere compassion knows.
Displays a feeling mind, and Tiridates
Is worthy all her pity: but such feeling
Is warmer sure than mere compassion knows.
Thy looks, O! gentle nymph, display
The thoughts that now thy bosom sway;
Thine eyes, where beams of softness play,
No inbred cruelty proclaim.
Though yet unfetter'd in his snares,
Thy soul to Love no hatred bears;
And modest pity oft prepares
The virgin's heart to catch the flame.
The thoughts that now thy bosom sway;
Thine eyes, where beams of softness play,
No inbred cruelty proclaim.
Though yet unfetter'd in his snares,
Thy soul to Love no hatred bears;
And modest pity oft prepares
The virgin's heart to catch the flame.
[Exit.
| Zenobia | |