But let us now retire, We must not be observ'd together here. Scene III. Scene III. Arsaces [alone]. Arsaces 'Tis here that hapless Bethas is confin'd; He who, but yesterday, like angry Jove, When punishing the crimes of guilty men, Spread death and desolation all around, While Parthia trembl'd at his name; is now Unfriended and forlorn, and counts the hours, Wrapt in the gloomy horrors of a goal.— How dark, and hidden, are the turns of fate! His rigid fortune moves me to compassion. O! 'tis a heav'nly virtue when the heart Can feel the sorrows of another's bosom, It dignifies the man: The stupid wretch Who knows not this sensation, is an image, And wants the feeling to make up a life—
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