And ev'ry boaster's rais'd above my merit,

Barzaphernes alone commands his ear,

His oracle in all.

Vardanes.

Vardanes.

I hate Arsaces,

Tho' he's my Mother's son, and churchmen say

There's something sacred in the name of Brother.

My soul endures him not, and he's the bane

Of all my hopes of greatness. Like the sun

He rules the day, and like the night's pale Queen,

My fainter beams are lost when he appears.

And this because he came into the world,

A moon or two before me: What's the diff'rence,

That he alone should shine in Empire's seat?

I am not apt to trumpet forth my praise,

Or highly name myself, but this I'll speak,

To him in ought, I'm not the least inferior.

Ambition, glorious fever! mark of Kings,

Gave me immortal thirst and rule of Empire.

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