 | Demetrius |  |
SCENE XVIII.
Phenicius, Barsene.Phen.
I cannot tell, Barsene, what to think
Of this excess of zeal: thy watchful care
To guard her glory carries thee too far.
It cannot be that maxims so severe
Inspire thy gentle sex: thou dost conceal
Some private interest in thy breast, beneath
These specious shows of honour—Thou art silent—
A blush o'erspreads thy cheek—speak—can it be?
Art thou the rival then of Cleonice?
Even now I saw thee on Alcestes turn
Thy looks by stealth, nor did thy sighs escape me.
But no, thou canst not thus ungrateful prove;
Thy sovereign then with justice might reproach thee.
372
Is it my fault, Phenicius, if I love?
From love's dominion would be found
Our pleasure, not our pain,
If every heart, which he has bound,
Could break at will its chain.
Our pleasure, not our pain,
If every heart, which he has bound,
Could break at will its chain.
But entering love's alluring state,
We know not half his wiles;
And when we know, 'tis then too late
To struggle in the toils.
We know not half his wiles;
And when we know, 'tis then too late
To struggle in the toils.
[Exit.
| Demetrius | |