And doth thy hatred then extend so far,

      That innocent and guilty all alike

      Must feel thy dreadful vengeance?

      Ah! Edessa,

      Thou dost not know e'en half my mighty wrongs,

      But in thy bosom I will pour my sorrows.

      With secrecy I ever have repaid

      Your confidence.

      I know thou hast; then hear:

      The changeling King who oft has kneel'd before me,

      And own'd no other pow'r, now treats me

      With ill dissembl'd love mix'd with disdain.

      A newer beauty rules his faithless heart,

      Which only in variety is blest;

      Oft have I heard him, when wrapt up in sleep,

      And wanton fancy rais'd the mimic scene,

      Call with unusual fondness on Evanthe,

      While I have lain neglected by his side,

      Except sometimes in a mistaken rapture

      He'd clasp me to his bosom.

      Oh! Madam,

      Let not corroding jealousy usurp

      Your Royal breast, unnumber'd ills attend

      The wretch who entertains that fatal guest.

      Think not that I'll pursue its wand'ring fires,

      No more I'll know perplexing doubts and fears,

      And erring trace suspicion's endless maze,

      For, ah! I doubt no more.

      Their shouts approach.

      Lead me, Edessa, to some peaceful gloom,

      Some silent shade far from the walks of men,

      There shall the hop'd revenge my thoughts employ,

      And sooth my sorrows with the coming joy.

      No, I'll not meet him now, for love delights

      In the soft pleasures of the secret shade,

      And shuns the noise and tumult of the croud.

      How tedious are the hours which bring him

      To my fond, panting heart! for oh! to those

      Who live in expectation of the bliss,

      Time slowly creeps, and ev'ry tardy minute

      Seems mocking of their wishes. Say, Cleone,

      For you beheld the triumph, 'midst his pomp,

      Did he not seem to curse the empty show,

      The pageant greatness, enemy to love,

      Which held him from Evanthe? haste, to tell me,

      And feed my gready ear with the fond tale —

      Yet, hold – for I shall weary you with questions,

      And ne'er be satisfied – Beware, Cleone,

      And guard your heart from Love's delusive sweets.

      Is Love an ill, that thus you caution me

      To shun his pow'r?

      The Tyrant, my Cleone,

      Despotic rules, and fetters all our thoughts.

      Oh! wouldst thou love, then bid adieu to peace,

      Then fears will come, and jealousies intrude,

      Ravage your bosom, and disturb your quiet,

      E'en pleasure to excess will be a pain.

      Once I was free, then my exulting heart

      Was like a bird that hops from spray to spray,

      And all was innocence and mirth; but, lo!

      The Fowler came, and by his arts decoy'd,

      And soon the Wanton cag'd. Twice fifteen times

      Has Cynthia dipt her horns in beams of light,

      Twice fifteen times has wasted all her brightness,

      Since first I knew to love; 'twas on that day

      When curs'd Vonones fell upon the plain,

      The lovely Victor doubly conquer'd me.

      Forgive my boldness, Madam, if I ask

      What chance first gave you to Vonones' pow'r?

      Curiosity thou know'st is of our sex.

      That is a task will wake me to new sorrows,

      Yet thou attend, and I will tell thee all.

      Arabia gave me birth, my father held

      Great Offices at Court, and was reputed

      Brave, wise and loyal, by his Prince belov'd.

      Oft has he led his conqu'ring troops, and forc'd

      From frowning victory her awful honours.

      In infancy I was his only treasure,

      On me he wasted all his store of fondness.

      Oh! I could tell thee of his wond'rous goodness,

      His more than father's love and tenderness.

      But thou wouldst jeer, and say the tale was trifling;

      So did he dote upon me, for in childhood

      My infant charms, and artless innocence

      Blest his fond age, and won on ev'ry heart.

      But, oh! from this sprung ev'ry future ill,

      This fatal beauty was the source of all.

      'Tis often so, for beauty is a flow'r

      That tempts the hand to pluck it.

      Full three times

      Has scorching summer fled from cold winter's

      Ruthless blasts, as oft again has spring

      In sprightly youth drest nature in her beauties,

      Since bathing in Niphates'5 silver stream,

      Attended only by one fav'rite maid;

      As we were sporting on the wanton waves,

      Swift from the wood a troop of horsemen rush'd,

      Rudely they seiz'd, and bore me trembling off,

      In vain Edessa with her shrieks assail'd

      The heav'ns, for heav'n was deaf to both our pray'rs.

      The wretch whose insolent embrace confin'd me

      (Like thunder bursting on the guilty soul),

      With curs'd Vonones' voice pour'd in my ears

      A hateful tale of love; for he it seems

      Had seen me at Arabia's royal court,

      And took those means to force me to his arms.

      Perhaps