Arsaces.

Arsaces.

My Royal Sire, these honours are unmerited,

Beneath your prosp'rous auspices I fought,

Bright vict'ry to your banners joyful flew,

And favour'd for the Sire the happy son.

But lenity should grace the victor's laurels,

Then, here, my gracious Father—

King.

King.

Ha! 'tis Bethas!

Know'st thou, vain wretch, what fate attends on those

Who dare oppose the pow'r of mighty Kings,

Whom heav'n delights to favour? sure some God

Who sought to punish you for impious deeds,

'Twas urg'd you forward to insult our arms,

And brave us at our Royal City's gates.

Bethas.

Bethas.

At honour's call, and at my King's command,

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