Thou, from whose being o'er a thousand hearts,
A healing balsam flows? when to a race.
To whom a god consign'd thee, thou dost prove
A fountain of perpetual happiness,
And from this dire inhospitable shore
Dost to the stranger grant a safe return?

IPHIGENIA.
The little done doth vanish to the mind,
Which forward sees how much remains to do.

ARKAS.
Him dost thou praise, who underrates his deeds?

IPHIGENIA.
Who estimates his deeds is justly blam'd.

ARKAS.
We blame alike, who proudly disregard
Their genuine merit, and who vainly prize
Their spurious worth too highly. Trust me, priestess,
And hearken to the counsel of a man
With honest zeal devoted to thy service:
When Thoas comes to-day to speak with thee,
Lend to his purpos'd words a gracious ear.

IPHIGENIA.
The well-intention'd counsel troubles me:
His offer studiously I've sought to shun.