Retiring rage gives place to softer passions,

And gen'rous warriors know no longer hate,

The name of foe is lost, and thus I ask

Your friendship.

Bethas.

Bethas.

Ah! why dost thou mock me thus?

Arsaces.

Arsaces.

Let the base coward, he who ever shrinks,

And trembles, at the slight name of danger,

Taunt, and revile, with bitter gibes, the wretched;

The brave are ever to distress a friend.

Tho' my dear country (spoil'd by wasteful war,

Her harvests blazing, desolate her towns,

And baleful ruin shew'd her haggard face)

Call'd out on me to save her from her foes,[Pg 56]

[Pg 56]

And I obey'd, yet to your gallant prowess,

And unmatch'd deeds, I admiration gave.

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