Thomyris, Queen of Scythia | ||
SCENE I.
SCENE A Tent in a Camp, Trees on both Sides. Cleora is discover'd in a melancholic Posture, Media by her; Guards at a Distance.Cleo.
From
Scythian Bonds, to Persia's Court,
Oh! how shall I return?
Must I, alas! be Fortune's Sport,
And only live to mourn?
AIR.Oh! how shall I return?
Must I, alas! be Fortune's Sport,
And only live to mourn?
Freedom, thou greatest Blessing,
Why have I lost thy Joys?
Pining, no Rest possessing,
Grief all my Hours employs.
Thy Loss now to my Eyes
A Flood of Tears will cost:
Oh! why do we not prize
Our Treasure 'till 'tis lost!
Freedom, &c.
Why have I lost thy Joys?
Pining, no Rest possessing,
Grief all my Hours employs.
Thy Loss now to my Eyes
A Flood of Tears will cost:
2
Our Treasure 'till 'tis lost!
Freedom, &c.
Med.
Cease, Princess! Calm your Thoughts to Peace!
Nor, grieving thus, your Woes increase.
“Women, fram'd for soft Alarms,
“May of Eastern Kings complain,
“Who luxurious, ev'n in Arms,
“Clog Armies with a Female Train.
“The Lumber of the War we prove;
“And grace no Camp, but that of Love.
Yet, tho' surpriz'd by Scythian Foes,
The Niece of Cyrus feels unusual Woes,
That Monarch, fortunate and great,
Will soon reverse our Fate;
And stubborn Scythia shall obey
His Arbitrary Sway.
AIR.
Ever merry,
Gay and airy,
Be adjourning
Care and Mourning!
Sorrow never comes too late;
We're impairing
By Despairing.
We're improving,
Care removing.
Then be happy, spite of Fate!
Ever merry, &c.
Gay and airy,
Be adjourning
Care and Mourning!
Sorrow never comes too late;
We're impairing
By Despairing.
We're improving,
Care removing.
Then be happy, spite of Fate!
Ever merry, &c.
3
Thy gay Humour, to my Grief
Brings no Cure, tho' some Relief.
Yet, in Innocence secure,
Bravely I'll the worst endure;
Like thee, strive my Heart to chear;
And lull asleep my Care.
AIR.
What should alarm me?
No Foe can harm me.
Let Virtue arm me;
Fears will be vain.
Yet, Freedom wanting,
My Breast they're haunting;
My Heart is panting,
I live in Pain.
What should, &c.
No Foe can harm me.
Let Virtue arm me;
Fears will be vain.
Yet, Freedom wanting,
My Breast they're haunting;
My Heart is panting,
I live in Pain.
What should, &c.
Thomyris, Queen of Scythia | ||