And by the roots tear my dishevell'd hair?

Did I not follow to the sea-beat shore,

Resolv'd with him, and with my blooming boy,

To trust the winds and waves?

Mel. Deem not, Euphrasia,

I e'er can doubt thy constancy and love.

Eup. Melanthon, how I loved, the gods, who saw

Each secret image that my fancy form'd,

The gods can witness how I lov'd my Phocion,

And yet I went not with him. Could I do it?

Could I desert my father? Could I leave

The venerable man, who gave me being,

A victim here in Syracuse, nor stay

To watch his fate, to visit his affliction,

To cheer his prison hours, and with the tear

Of filial virtue bid ev'n bondage smile?

Mel. The pious act, whate'er the fates intend,

Shall merit heartfelt praise.

Eup. Yes, Phocion, go,

Go with my child, torn from this matron breast,

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