Artaxerxes, Act Iii: Recitative: “Perhaps The King Releas’D Arbaces”

MANDANE:  
Perhaps the King releas'd Arbaces

SEMIRA: 
No  rather destroy'd him

MANDANE: 
How?

SEMIRA:  
'Tis known to all
In secret he resign'd his wretched life

MANDANE:  
O hapless youth! O tidings worse than death

SEMIRA:  
I hope your vengeance now is satisfied   
Or would you other victims? Speak!

MANDANE:
I cannot
Light cares are often soften'd by complaint
But such as mine arrest the pow'r of speech

SEMIRA:  
Ne'er liv'd a heart more lost to sense of pity
All eyes in Persia bewail his hapless fate
But yours are dry

MANDANE:  
The deeper my affliction
Small is the grief that vents itself in tears

SEMIRA:  
Go, if not satisfied, and feast your eyes 
Upon the slaughter'd spoils of my dear brother
With secret joy, number his bloody wounds...

MANDANE:
Be silent ... Leave me
SEMIRA:  

Never while thou liv'st,
I'll haunt thee like a spirit, and my wrongs
Shall dash thy hopes, with bitterness and woe

MANDANE:  
You think me cruel, and denounce revenge
Ah! How have I deserv'd thy enmity?