May shake it thence.

Phil. It shall, dread sir; that task

Leave to thy faithful servant.

Dio. Oh! Philotas,

Thou little know'st the cares, the pangs of empire.

The ermin'd pride, the purple that adorns

A conqueror's breast, but serves, my friend, to hide

A heart that's torn, that's mangled with remorse.

Each object round me wakens horrid doubts;

The flatt'ring train, the sentinel that guards me,

The slave that waits, all give some new alarm,

And from the means of safety dangers rise.

Ev'n victory itself plants anguish here,

And round my laurels the fell serpent twines.

Phil. Would Dionysius abdicate his crown,

And sue for terms of peace?

Dio. Detested thought!

No, though ambition teem with countless ills,

It still has charms of pow'r to fire the soul.

Though horrors multiply around my head,

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