Assur: Ere long all Asia shall attend On our resolves, and low concerns like these Must pass unheeded by: a world demands Our mutual care: Sémiramis is now The shadow of herself, her glory’s past, That star which shone with such transcendent lustre, Declining now, sends forth a feeble ray; The people see and wonder at her fall, Whilst every tongue demands a—successor: That word sufficeth: you well know my right: ’Tis not for love to deal forth sovereign power, And point out who shall rule in Babylon; Not that my soul, to beauty blind, would make A virtue of insensibility; But I should blush for thee and for myself, To see the welfare of a nation thus Dependent on a sigh: thoughts worthier both Must guide my fortune, and determine thine: Our ancestors the same, we should offend Their venerable shades, and lose the world By not uniting: I astonish you: These are harsh words for tender age like thine; But I address me to the kings and heroes From whom you sprung, to all those demigods Whom here you represent: too long trod down Beneath a woman’s feet their ashes lay, Their glories she eclipsed, usurped their power, And fettered vanquished nations with her laws; But she is gone, and thou must now support The building she had raised: she had thy beauty, And thou must have her courage: let not love Or folly wrest the sceptre from thy hand, But grasp it close: you will not sacrifice To a Sarmatian’s idle passion for you The name you ought to honor, and the throne You should ascend, of universal empire.

Azema: Let not Arsaces be the theme, my lord, Of your reproaches, but depend on me To vindicate the honor of my race, And to defend, whene’er occasion calls, The rights of my loved ancestors; I know Their worth and virtues, but I know not one Amongst the heroes which Assyria boasts More great, more virtuous, more beloved, than he, Than this Sarmatian, whom you thus disdain. Do justice to his merit: for myself, When I shall bend to Hymen’s laws, the queen Must guide my choice, and at her hands alone Will I receive a master: for the crowd, The babbling echo of one secret voice, I heed it not; nor know I if the people Are tired of their obedience to a woman, But still I see them bow the knee before her; And if they murmur, murmur in the dust: The hand of heaven, they say, is raised against her: I am a stranger to her guilt, but think That heaven would never have made choice of thee To tell its high commands, or minister Its justice to mankind: Sémiramis Is still a queen, and you who lord it here Receive from her the laws which you dispense: For me, I own her power, and hers alone: My glory is to obey, be thine the same.