Chapter 36

EVANTHE [_alone_].

Ah!--what a cruel torment is suspense! My anxious soul is torn 'twixt love and fear, Scarce can I please me with one fancied bliss Which kind imagination forms, but reason, Proud, surly reason, snatches the vain joy, And gives me up again to sad distress. Yet I can die, and should Arsaces fall This fatal draught shall ease me of my sorrows.