TAMERLANE.
47
Give to the Man that shall restore his Liberty,His Crown? and give him Pow'r to wreck his HatredUpon his greatest Foe?
Ha.All he can ask,And far beyond his Wish.— [Trumpets.
Om.These Trumpets speakThe Emperor's approach; he comes, once more,To offer Terms of Peace; retire———withinI will know farther,———he grows deadly to me,And curse me, Prophet, if I not repayHis Hate, with retribution full as mortal.[Exeunt.Scene draws, discovers Arpasia lying on a Couch.
A SONG to Sleep. By a Lady.
To Thee, oh! gentle Sleep, aloneIs owing all our Peace,By Thee our Joys are heighten'd shown,By Thee our Sorrows cease.
The Nymph, whose Hand, by Fraud, or Force,Some Tyrant has possess'd,By Thee, obtaining a Divorce,In her own Choice, is blest.
Oh! stay; Arpasia bids thee stay,The sadly weeping FairConjures Thee, not to lose in DayThe Object of her Care.
To grasp whose pleasing Form she sought,That Motion chac't her Sleep,Thus by our selves, are oft nest wroughtThe Griefs, for which wee weep.
Arp.
