6

6

The stripling who to me was as a son,

Taken in some sally, languished till he died,

Chained in their dungeons' depths;—must I not hate them

With hate as deep as hell? And yet I know

There is no other way than that Asander

Should wed this woman. This alone can staunch

The bleeding wounds of the State.

King.

Lysimachus,

I am old; my will is weak, my body bent,

Not more than is my mind; I cannot reason.

But hark! I hear the ring of coursers' feet

Bespeak Asander coming. What an air

Of youth and morning breathes round him, and brings

A light of hope again!

Enter Asander from the chase.

Asander

Asan. My dearest sire and King, art thou thus grave

 Prev. P 10/208 next