ant hills.
O that my breath was poison, then indeed
I'd hail him like the rest, but blast him too.

ARSACES.

My Royal Sire, these honours are unmerited,
Beneath your prosp'rous auspices I fought,
Bright vict'ry to your banners joyful flew,
And favour'd for the Sire the happy son.
But lenity should grace the victor's laurels,
Then, here, my gracious Father--

KING.

Ha! 'tis Bethas!
Know'st thou, vain wretch, what fate attends on those
Who dare oppose the pow'r of mighty Kings,
Whom heav'n delights to favour? sure some God
Who sought to punish you for impious deeds,
'Twas urg'd you forward to insult our arms,
And brave us at our Royal City's gates.

BETHAS.

At honour's call, and at my King's command,
Tho' it were even with my single arm, again
I'd brave the multitude, which, like a deluge,
O'erwhelm'd my gallant handful; yea, wou'd meet
Undaunted, all the fury of the torrent.
'Tis honour is the guide of all my actions,
The ruling star by which I steer thro' life,
And shun the shelves of infamy and vice.

KING.

It was the thirst of gain which drew you on;
'Tis thus that Av'rice always cloaks its views,
Th' ambition of your Prince you gladly snatch'd
As opportunity to fill your coffers.
It was the plunder of our palaces,
And of our wealthy cities, fill'd your dreams,
And urg'd you on your way; but you have met
The due reward of your audacity.
Now shake your chains, shake and delight your ears
With the soft music of your golden fetters.

BETHAS.

True, I am fall'n, but glorious was my fall,
The day was brav'ly fought, we did our best,
But victory's of heav'n. Look o'er yon field,
See if thou findest one Arabian back
Disfigur'd with dishonourable wounds.
No, here, deep on their bosoms, are engrav'd
The marks of honour! 'twas thro' here their souls
Flew to their blissful seats. Oh! why did I
Survive the fatal day? To be this slave,
To be the gaze and sport of vulgar crouds,
Thus, like a shackl'd tyger, stalk my round,
And grimly low'r upon the shouting herd.
Ye Gods!--

KING.

Away with him to instant death.

ARSACES.

Hear me, my Lord, O, not on this bright day,
Let not this day of joy blush with his blood.
Nor count his steady loyalty a crime,
But give him life, Arsaces humbly asks it,
And may you e'er be serv'd with honest hearts.

KING.

Well, be it so; hence, bear him to his dungeon;
Lysias, we here commit him to thy charge.

BETHAS.