Be circl'd in a venom'd serpent's fold.

Gotarzes.

Gotarzes.

O, my lov'd Brother, 'tis my humble boon,

That, when the war next calls you to the field,

I may attend you in the rage of battle.

By imitating thy heroic deeds,

Perhaps, I may rise to some little worth,

Beneath thy care I'll try my feeble wings,

Till taught by thee to soar to nobler heights.

King.

King.

Why, that's my boy, thy spirit speaks thy birth,

No more I'll turn thee from the road to glory,

To rust in slothfulness, with lazy Gownsmen.

Gotarzes.

Gotarzes.

Thanks, to my Sire, I'm now completely blest.

Arsaces.

Arsaces.

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