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Show 58 B U S I R I S, My Heart is burfting. Ram. With Revenge. Mem. And Love. Ram. Revenge. Mem. One dear Embrace, 'twill edge my Sword. Syph. N o , Memnon, if our Swords now want an Edge, They'll want for ever ; to this Spot I charm thee; By the dread Words Revenge and Liberty ! This is the Crifis of our Fates, this Moment The Guardian Gods of Egypt hover o'er us, They watch to fee us act like prudent Men, And out of Ills extract our Happinefs. M y Friends, thefe dire Calamities, like Poifon, M a y have their wholfome Ufe ! this fad Occafion, If manag'd artfully, revives our Hopes; It gives Nicanor to our finking Faction, And ftill the Tyrant fhakes. Ram. M y Father comes; Or fnatch this Moment, or defpair for ever. While Paftions glow, the Heart, like heated Steel, Takes each Impreffion, and is work'd at Pleafure. Enter Nicanor. Nic. Why have the Gods chofe out my weakeft Hours, T o fet their Terrors in array againft m e ? This wou'd beat down the Vigour of m y Youth, M u c h more grey Hairs, and Life worn down fo low. Vain M a n ! to be fo fond of breathing long, And fpinniog out a Thread of Mifery. T h e longer Life the greater Choice of Evil; T h e happieft M a n is but a w:retched Thing, That fteals poor Comfort from Comparifon ; What then a m i ? here will I fit m e down, Brood o'er m y Cares, and think myfelf to Death. Draw near, Ramefes ; I was rafh e're while, And chid thse without Caufe.-How many Years- Have K I N G of Egypt. 59 Have I been cas'd in Ste*el ? Ram. Full threefcore Years Have chang'd the Seafons o'er your^jrefled Brow, Andfe^n your Fauchion dy'd in Hoftiie Blood. Nic. H o w many Triumphs fince the King has reign'd! Ramo.n Te.h ey number juft your Battles, one Ior MV.True, I have follow* d the rough Trade of War With fome Succsfs, and can without a Blufh Review thefhaken Fort, and fanguine Plain. I have thought Pain a Pleafure, Thirft and Toil Bleft Objects of Ambition ; I remember, (Nor do my Foes forget that bloody Day:) When the barb'd Arrow from my gaping Thigh Was wiench'd with Labour, I difdain'd to grone, Becaufe I fuffer'd for Buftris' Sake. Ram The King is not to blame. Nic. Is not the Prince his Son? Ram. But in h i m f e l f - Nic. And has he loft his Guilt, ,n r L * (Rfingin Paffion. tauie he hasinjur'd me \ E're while thy Blood Was kindled at his Name. Did'ft Thou not tell me A fhameful black Defign on poor Amelia ? Oh Memnon I what a glorious Race is this, T o m a k e t h e G o d - a P a r t rCauf S' And draw down Bleffings on us ' Inf^^V^^^PPortsthem' ower, |