And for the boon the Ingrate pays him hate.

Phraates.

Phraates.

There's something in the wind, for I've observ'd

Of late he much frequents the Queen's apartment,

And fain would court her favour, wild is she

To gain revenge for fell Vonones' death,

And firm resolves the ruin of Arsaces.

Because that fill'd with filial piety,

To save his Royal Sire, he struck the bold

Presumptuous Traitor dead; nor heeds she

The hand which gave her Liberty, nay rais'd her

Again to Royalty.

Gotarzes.

Gotarzes.

Ingratitude,

Thou hell-born fiend, how horrid is thy form!

The Gods sure let thee loose to scourge mankind,

And save them from an endless waste of thunder.

Phraates.

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