TAMERLANE.
65
Enter Moneses, guarded by some Mutes; others attending witha Cup of Poison and a Bow-string.
Mon.I charge ye, O ye Minister of Fate,Be swift to execute your Master's Will,Bear me to my Arpasia; let me tell her,The Tyrant is grown kind. He bids me go,And die beneath her Feet. A Joy shoots thro'My drooping Breast, as often, when the TrumpetHas call'd my youthful Ardour forth to Battle;High in my Hopes, and ravisht with the Sound,I have rusht eager on amidst the foremostTo purchase Victory, or glorious Death.
Arp.If it be Happiness alas! to die,To lie forgotten in the silent Grave,To Love, and Glory lost, and from amongThe great Creator's Works expung'd and blotted,Then very shortly shall we both be happy.
Mon.There is no room for doubt, 'tis certain Bliss;The Tyrant's cruel Violence, thy Loss,Already seem more light, nor has my SoulOne unrepented Guilt upon remembrance,To make me dread the justice of hereafter;But standing now on the last Verge of Life,Boldly I view the vast Abyss, Eternity,Eager to plunge, and leave my Woes behind me.
Arp.By all the Truth of our past Lives I vow!To die! appears a very nothing to me:But oh! Moneses, should I not allowSomewhat to Love, and to my Sexes tenderness,This very Now, I could put off my being,Without a Groan; but to behold thee die.———Nature shrinks in me, at the dreadful Thought,Nor can my Constancy sustain this Blow.
Mon.Since thou art arm'd for all things, after Death,Why should the Pomp and Preparation of itBe frightful to thy Eyes? There's not a Pain,
Which
