Let instant victims at the altar bleed:

Let incense roll its fragrant clouds to Heav'n,

And pious matrons, and the virgin train,

In slow procession to the temple bear

The image of their gods.

The solemn sacrifice, the virgin throng,

Will gain the popular belief, and kindle

In the fierce soldiery religious rage.[Pg 30]

[Pg 30]

Away, my friends, prepare the sacred rites.

[Exeunt Calippus, &c.

[

Calippus

Philotas, thou draw near: how fares your pris'ner?

Has he yet breath'd his last?

Phil. Life ebbs apace;

To-morrow's sun sees him a breathless corse.

Dio. Curse on his ling'ring pangs! Sicilia's crown

No more shall deck his brow; and if the sand

Still loiter in the glass, thy hand, my friend,

 Prev. P 46/101 next