 | Thomyris, Queen of Scythia |  |
46
SCENE III.
A Palace.Enter Media, Baldo.
Med.
The grieving Princess to revive,
Is there no Hope, he's yet alive?
Bald.
Oh! Let the losing World complain.
Scythias's Brave Prince, our other Hope is slain.
Tho' great Numbers 'scap'd by Flight,
He, with the rest, fell in the Night.
While with our Queen the Nation mourns,
Grief to revengeful Fury turns.
Our Troops, of whom the Van alone
Forc'd Persia's Camp, then were by Fraud o'erthrown,
Now more wary grown,
Retreat, but to give the Foe
A nobler Overthrow.
Med.
The Princess comes—Away—you might enrage
The grief I wou'd asswage.
[Exit. Bald.
Enter Cleora.
AIR.
Cleo.
VVhy must Sorrow for ever attend me,
Never end me!
How long must I crave
For Death, and the Grave!
Hopes are lost—What I mourn
Can ne'er return.
Life's all Anguish:
We but Languish,
And our Loss deplore,
When Love is no more.
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Why shou'd you crave
For Death and the Grave?
Old Maids in Despair
All Hopes may give over.
But the Young, and the Fair,
Chuse Life, and a Lover.
AIR.
VVhen One's gone, n'er keep a Pother.
Get another! get another!
Youth and Beauty should be gay.
Cheer up, and again be shining,
Never whining,
Nor repining:
Among Lovers that's the Way.
Get another! get another!
Youth and Beauty should be gay.
Cheer up, and again be shining,
Never whining,
Nor repining:
Among Lovers that's the Way.
Cleora goes out, and Media follows her, singing to her.
[Exeunt.
Enter Thomyris.
Tho.
Weep no more! or weep unseen,
Hopeless Mother; mournful Queen!
Tho' deepest in a Royal Brest,
Woe must be born, yet not exprest.
Oh! thou, my only Hope, my Son,
While I retire to weep alone,
Nobler mourning Scythia owing,
Shall with her Tears see Persian Blood o'erflowing.
AIR,
Humble Shepherds, Grief may pain you:
But no Forms in Woe restrain you.
Your Complaint the Pain asswages.
Fate with greater Anguish tries me;
Yet the common Cure denies me.
Grief oppos'd, more fiercely rages.
But no Forms in Woe restrain you.
Your Complaint the Pain asswages.
Fate with greater Anguish tries me;
Yet the common Cure denies me.
Grief oppos'd, more fiercely rages.
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Med.
Help! Gracious Queen! Grant Innocence Relief.
Tho.
Who dares intrude on Royal Grief?
Med.
Oh! Pardon! In this dreadful Hour,
Be Great in Mercy, as in Pow'r!
Unless you save, Cleora dies,
Devoted by the Crowd, an impious Sacrifice.
Tho.
Oh! She less wretched yet than I!
But Justice bids me intervene:
The weak from Lawless Rage to free,
And still exert the Queen.
Like the Thunder, Guilt alarming,
Royal Frowns the World can awe.
“Heav'n with Pow'r our Hands is arming
“To maintain, and give the Law.
[Exeunt.
| Thomyris, Queen of Scythia | |