Lysias.

Lysias.

That shout proclaims

Arsaces' near approach.

Vardanes.

Vardanes.

Peace, prithee, peace,

Wilt thou still shock me with that hated sound,

And grate harsh discord in my offended ear?

If thou art fond of echoing the name,

Join with the servile croud, and hail his triumph.

Lysias.

Lysias.

I hail him? By our glorious shining God,

I'd sooner lose my speech, and all my days

In silence rest, conversing with my thoughts,

Than hail Arsaces.

Vardanes.

Vardanes.

Yet, again his name,

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