Classic Poem

SCENE X.

Astarbe. Doraspe.

Dor. What's the Queen's pleasure? See your servant ready.
Why are your eyes thus fixt upon the ground?
Why that deep sigh? and why these trembling lips?
This sudden paleness, and these starts of frenzy?
You're sick at heart.
Ast. Yes; I will be reveng'd.
Dor. Lift up your eyes, and know me. 'Tis Doraspe .
Ast. Look on me, tell me, is my beauty blighted?
And shrunk at once into deformity?
Slighted! despis'd! my charms all set at nought!
Yes. I will be reveng'd. — — O my Doraspe ,
I've met with foul contempt, and cold disdain:
And shall the wretch who gave me guilt and shame,
The wretch who's conscious of my infamy
Out-live that crime? he must not, nay, he shall not.
Dor. Let reason mitigate and quell this feaver;
The safest, surest, is the cool revenge.
Rash anger, like the hasty scorpion's fury,
Torments and wounds it self.
Ast. It is in vain
The torrent rushes on; it swells, ferments,
And strongly bears away all opposition.
What means that hurry in the antichamber?
What are those crowds?
Dor. The King intends to mount the judgment-seat,
And the conspirators now wait their sentence.
Ast. Go, tell Araxes (if with privacy
He could conduct him) I would see their chief;
The desp'rate instrument of this bold scheme;
This instant; ere he stands before the Presence.