In sleep behold the image of the death I wish,

Forget my sorrows and heart-breaking anguish?

These horrors I would undisturb'd enjoy,

Attended only by my silent thoughts;

Is it to see the wretch that you have made;

To view the ruins of unhappy Bethas,

And triumph in my grief? Is it for this

You penetrate my dark joyless prison?

Arsaces.

Arsaces.

Oh! do not injure me by such suspicions.

Unknown to me are cruel scoffs and jests;

My breast can feel compassion's tenderness,

The warrior's warmth, the soothing joys of friendship.

When adverse bold battalions shook the earth,

And horror triumph'd on the hostile field,

I sought you with a glorious enmity,

And arm'd my brow with the stern frown of war.

But now the angry trumpet wakes no more

The youthful champion to the lust for blood.

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