Yes, ye great Pow'rs who boast the name of mercy,

Ye have deny'd me to his latest moments,

To all the offices of filial duty,

To bind his wounds, and wash them with my tears,

Is this, is this your mercy?

Cleone.

Cleone.

Blame not heav'n,

For heav'n is just and kind; dear Lady, drive

These black ideas from your gentle breast;

Fancy delights to torture the distress'd,

And fill the gloomy scene with shadowy ills,

Summon your reason, and you'll soon have comfort.

Evanthe.

Evanthe.

Dost thou name comfort to me, my Cleone,

Thou who know'st all my sorrows? plead no more,

'Tis reason tells me I am doubly wretched.

Cleone.

Cleone.

 Prev. P 36/187 next