Our fate allows us now.

Eup. Yet, why despair?

Is that the tribute to a father due?

Blood is his due, Melanthon; yes, the blood,

The vile, black blood, that fills the tyrant's veins,[Pg 16]

[Pg 16]

Would graceful look upon my dagger's point.

Come, vengeance, come, shake off the feeble sex,

Sinew my arm, and guide it to his heart.

And thou, O filial piety, that rul'st

My woman's breast, turn to vindictive rage;

Assume the port of justice; show mankind

Tyrannic guilt hath never dar'd in Syracuse,

Beyond the reach of virtue.

Mel. Moderate your zeal,

Nor let him hear these transports of the soul,

These wild upbraidings.

Eup. Shall Euphrasia's voice

Be hush'd to silence, when a father dies?

Shall not the monster hear his deeds accurst?

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