Bethas.

Bethas.

True, I am fall'n, but glorious was my fall,

The day was brav'ly fought, we did our best,

But victory's of heav'n. Look o'er yon field,

See if thou findest one Arabian back

Disfigur'd with dishonourable wounds.

No, here, deep on their bosoms, are engrav'd

The marks of honour! 'twas thro' here their souls

Flew to their blissful seats. Oh! why did I

Survive the fatal day? To be this slave,

To be the gaze and sport of vulgar crouds,

Thus, like a shackl'd tyger, stalk my round,

And grimly low'r upon the shouting herd.

Ye Gods!—

King.

King.

Away with him to instant death.

Arsaces.

Arsaces.

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