Why lag'd my tardy soul, why droop'd the wing,

Nor forward springing, shot before his speed

To seize the prize?—'Twas Empire—Oh! 'twas Empire[Pg 36]—

[Pg 36]

Lysias.

Lysias.

Yet, I must think that of superior mould

Your soul was form'd, fit for a heav'nly state,

And left reluctant its sublime abode,

And painfully obey'd the dread command,

When Jove's controuling fate forc'd it below.

His soul was earthly, and it downward mov'd,

Swift as to the center of attraction.

Vardanes.

Vardanes.

It might be so—But I've another cause

To hate this Brother, ev'ry way my rival;

In love as well as glory he's above me;

I dote on fair Evanthe, but the charmer

Disdains my ardent suit, like a miser

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