 | Irene |  |
SCENE VII.
Mahometsolus.
Whome'er the Hope, still blasted, still renew'd,
Of Happiness, lures on from Toil to Toil,
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Behold him here, in Love, in War successful,
Behold him wretched in his double Triumph;
His Fav'rite faithless, and his Mistress base.
Ambition only gave her to my Arms,
By Reason not convinc'd, nor won by Love.
Ambition was her Crime, but meaner Folly,
Dooms me to loath at once, and doat on Falshood,
And idolize th' Apostate I contemn.
If thou art more than the gay Dream of Fancy,
More than a pleasing Sound without a Meaning,
O Happiness! sure thou art all Aspasia's.
| Irene | |