Sémiramis: Canst thou bid me hate thee? Cruel Arsaces, no: I still must trace Thy footsteps, still my heart must follow thine: What is that paper which thou lookest on thus With horror, whilst thy eyes are bathed in tears, Does that contain a reason for thy coldness?

Arsaces: It does.

Sémiramis: Then give it me.

Arsaces: I must not: darest thou—

Sémiramis: I’ll have it.

Arsaces: Leave to me that dreadful scroll, To thee ’twere fatal, I have use for it.

Sémiramis: Whence came it?

Arsaces: From the gods.

Sémiramis: And wrote by whom?

Arsaces: Wrote by my father.

Sémiramis: Ha! what sayest thou?

Arsaces: Tremble.

Sémiramis: Give it me, let me know at once my fate.

Arsaces: Urge it no more; there is death in every line.

Sémiramis: No matter: clear my doubts, or I shall think That thou art guilty.

Arsaces: Ye immortal powers That guide our steps, it is to your decrees That I submit.

Sémiramis: For the last time, Arsaces, I here command thee, listen, and obey.

Arsaces: [Giving her the letter.] O may thy justice, heaven, be satisfied! And this the only punishment that e’er Shall be inflicted on her! now ’tis past, And thou wilt know too much. [She reads.]

Sémiramis: [To Otanes.] What do I read? Support me, or I die. [She faints.]

Arsaces: She sees it all.

Sémiramis: [Coming to herself, after a long silence.] Delay not, but fulfil thy destiny: Punish this guilty, this unhappy wretch, And in my blood wash out the deadly stain. Nature deceived is horrible to both, Avenge thy father, strike, and punish me.

Arsaces: No: let the sacred character I bear, The name of son, preserve me from that crime! Much rather would I pierce the heart of him Who still reveres thee, the poor lost

Arsaces:

Sémiramis: [Kneeling.] Be cruel as Sémiramis; she felt No pity, therefore be the son of Ninus, And take my life: thou wilt not; nay, thy tears Even mix with mine: O Ninias, ’tis a day Of horrors, yet there’s pleasure in this pain. Before thou givest me what I have deserved, The stroke of death, let nature’s voice be heard: O let a guilty mother’s tears bedew That dear, that fatal hand.

Arsaces: I am thy son, ’Tis not for thee, whate’er thy guilt, to fall Thus at my feet: O rise, thy Ninias begs, He loves thee still, still vows obedience to thee, Respect and purest love: consider me As a new subject, only more submissive, More humble, than the rest; I hope, more dear. Heaven that restores thy son is sure appeased: The gods who pardon thee reserve their vengeance For Assur; leave him to his fate.

Sémiramis: Receive My crown and sceptre, I have much disgraced them.

Arsaces: Still, I beseech you, hold me ignorant Of all, and let me with the world adore you.