 | Bonduca : or, The British Heroine |  |
ACT IV.
Enter Venutius and Claudia.Ven.
All's lost! All's lost! And our British Soil
So often fed with dying Roman's Blood,
Is now all cover'd o'er with slaughter'd Britains;
Whose yet warm Gore lies reeking on the Plains,
As if our Mother Earth refus'd a draught
So horrid and unnatural.
Claud.
Where'er
Our Fears Conduct us, still we may behold
The Dead, or Dying, whose louder Cries o'ercome
The Exclamations of the Conquering Romans.
Ven.
Let 'em cry on, till their wild Voices reach
Yon Auzure-Mansion of the Partial Gods;
But they are Deaf, or sure we might have hop'd for
A happier Harvest of our well-tun'd Prayers.
Claud.
Injurious Heav'n, where's now our Promis'd Bliss?
The good old Priest that shou'd have joyn'd our Loves!
The Virgin Hands to lead us to the Temple,
And Hymen's Lamp to smile upon our Joys!
No Priests! No Virgins Hands, or Lamp of Hymen!
Or if there is, 'tis blown into a Flame:
The Flame of War, that with devouring haste,
Bounds o'er the Land.
Ven.
O Claudia! Thou Beauties Excellence!
Thou Glorious Prize of my yet fruitless Labours!
The Cause, and the Reward of all my Toyls!
Did I for thee, and Honour draw my Sword,
And must I, must I sheath it in Dishonour?
36
No more my Hero! For in spight of Fortune,
(Fortune a Coward-Slave, t'a Soul like thine)
Thou still art Great, far greater in thy self,
Than all the Conquests of Insulting Rome.
Let me gaze on thee, fly into thy Arms;
Drown all my Cares in Ecstacies of Joy!
For tho' the World is lost, I'll Triumph here.
Ven.
Hear this, ye Gods! Hear this! And from the Crowd
Of all the Darling Romans, bring a Faith
That dares to match with Hers.
Claud.
No. Tho' Conquer'd, I'm still a Princess; Daughter
To a Queen, the Great Bonduca: Her
Whose powerful Arms have lasht the Fury
Of those stubborn Tyrants: these Sons of the Empire;
Thunder-Bolts of War; whose wild Ambition
Seems t'out-brave the Stars.
Ven.
O thou Great Soul! Thou Generous Heir to all
Thy Mother's Beauty, and thy Father's Virtue!
How oft in times to come, when Fame shall ripen
The Stories of thy Fortune, will the Virgins
Bow to thy Name, and in the height of Wonder,
Change all their Womans Fears for Manly Courage;
And the young Hero fledg'd with dear-bought Conquest
Melt into Love; wish to have liv'd like me,
Thus to admire, thus close to press thee ever.
Enter Comes.
Claud.
No more, my Love; see where the Pict appears!
Good Heav'n! Does he still live? And cou'd not Fate,
Arm'd with so many Weapons, find his Head,
And case the Earth that Groans beneath the Monster?
I cou'd not fight, my itching Flesh oppos'd
The Dictates of my Soul: Truth is, I never knew
A whining Lover, but he was a Coward;
And yet they say, that Woman's toy, Venutius,
That Youth, who has the Heroe and the Lover
Blended together, did work Miracles;
And in the foremost Ranks sustain, the Battel.
Why be it so, had she encourag'd me,
Like him, perhaps I might have dar'd beyond him.
Ven.
How gloomy, and distracted he appears!
Claud.
His Looks wear Horror, and his Thoughts Destruction.
Com.
She's but a Woman, proud and obstinate:
And when I know a thousand may be had,
Why shou'd I vilely lose one thought on her,
And to her Folly, Sacrifice my Quiet?
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'Tis fixt within, and Fate waits ready for him.
Hail wond'rous Youth! Thou Glory of this Isle;
Blest Britain's Hopes, and Terror of the Romans,
Whose Eagles that once led 'em on to Conquest,
Now hide their Heads, and slag their trembling Wings.
Claud.
What means this Sycophant?
Com.
Whose very Name
Can do the work of twenty thousand Soldiers;
The Nobl'st Tempers e'er drew Sword for Slaughter,
Are proud to be compar'd to thee, thou Heroe,
Whose yet Green Youth has done the work of Ages.
Ven.
Come, no more; I know thy Pride, and scorn it:
But if thou art wise don't urge me beyond bearing.
This Sword, still warm with the bold Romans Blood,
Ne'er yet unsheath'd, but in bright Honour's Field,
Shall do a Murder on thee, if thou dost.
Com.
Yes, now thou talk'st, stay, let me view him nearer:
Is this Venutius? This the Youth that basely
Whistled his Honour off to the Wind, and coldly
Shrunk his inglorious Head, whilst the rough Soldier
Sweat Blood and Spirit for a Glorious Harvest?
Thou Popingjay? Thou ten degrees beyond
A Coward! What, fly to a Woman's Arms!
Forsake the Field so basely! Out upon't!
Thou fit to sight with Romans! Then a Soldier!
Go home and hang thy Arms up; let rust rot 'em:
Go take a Distaff, Fool; for what brave Soldier,
What Man that loves to fight for Britain,
Will ever follow thee?
Ven.
Did I do this? Did I forsake the Field?
Did I, when Courted by loud Fame and Fortune,
Shrink back my Head, or in a Womans Arms
Melt down my Manly Courage? O all ye Gods!
Must I bear this? Must I with Patience hear it?
Nay, then I am that Fool, that Thing he call'd me.
Follow thou, Friend, follow me if thou dar'st.
Come to the Field, there thou shalt see this Coward,
This Womans Toy, this Popingjay, do Wonders
And what before the Admiring Army saw,
Thou shal't behold again.
Ha! Laugh'st thou, Hell hound?
Com.
Yes, to see thee Rave.
Where's now thy Wisdom, and that Manly temper
Thou hast so often bragg'd of? Behold now
That Object Pict, as thou hast proudly call'd me,
Can move thy Soul, and work it beyond Madness.
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Out, thou infernal Monster,
Half Man, half Devil; but ten times worse than both.
Com.
Good Lady Variety, are all my Actions
So poor and lost, my Services so barren,
That I'm remembred in no Nobler Language?
Claud.
Remember! I'd blot thee from my Thoughts;
Thy Person is so foul, thy Name so loathsome,
It blisters every Tongue dares mention it.
Come, my Venutius, let us to the Fort
Whither the lost Bonduca is retired
With my unhappy Sister, and leave him
To the worst of Torments, his own Conscience.
[Exeunt.
Com.
Farewel, proud Fool, next time we meet,
Your Tongue shall move in softer Terms,
And your stiff heart bow down in Pray'rs
To this loathsome Monster,
This hated Pict; for ere to morrow's Light
Your Sun shall set in Everlasting Night.
[Exit.
Enter Caratach and Hengo.
Car.
How does my Boy?
Hen.
I wou'd do well; my Heart's well;
I been't afraid, Uncle.
Car.
My good Boy.
Hen.
I know, Uncle, we must all die:
My little Brother dy'd, I saw him die;
And he dy'd smilingly; sure there is no
Great Pain in't, Uncle: But pray tell me
Whither must we goe when we are dead, Uncle?
Car.
Strange Questions!
Why, to the blessed'st Place, Boy: Eternal Sweetness
And Happiness dwells there.
Hen.
Will you come to me?
Car.
Yes, my sweet Boy.
Hen.
My Aunt too, and my Cousins?
Car.
All, my good Child.
Hen.
No Romans, Uncle.
Car.
No, Boy.
Hen.
I shou'd be loath to meet them there.
Car.
No ill Men,
That live by Violence and strong Oppression
Come thither; 'tis for those the Gods love, good Men.
Hen.
Why then, I care not when I go; for surely
I am persuaded they love me: I never did any thing
To vex my Mother in my Life; and indeed, Uncle,
Every Night, before I went to Bed, I said my Pray'rs.
39
Thou shalt go there then,
Indeed thou shalt.
Heng.
When they please, Uncle.
Car.
That's my good Boy:
Art thou not weary, Hengo?
Heng.
Weary, Uncle!
I've heard you say, you've march'd all day in Armour.
Car.
I have, Boy.
Hen.
Am I not of your Blood?
Car.
Yes, my Child.
Heng.
Then, ‘pray’, why can't I do so too?
Car.
Thou art too tender.
Heng.
What, to go upon my Legs, why they were
Made to bear me; I can play Twenty Mile a day.
I see no reason but to preserve my Country
And my self, I shou'd walk forty.
Car.
What woud'st thou be? Living to wear a Man's strength?
Heng.
Why, a Caratach:
A Roman Hater; a Scourge sent from Heaven,
To whip these proud Thieves from our Kingdom
Heark! Heark, Uncle! I hear a Drum!
Enter Macer, and Soldiers.
Mac.
Beat softly; softly, I say. They are here.
Who dares Charge?
1. Sold.
He that dares be knockt o'th' Head.
I'll not come near him.
Mac.
Retire again, and watch then: how he stares!
He has Eyes wou'd kill a Dragon.
Mark the Boy well; if we cou'd take, or kill him:
A pox upon you, how fierce you look!
Back, on's Back I say; he has found us.
[Retire.
Car.
Do you hunt us?
Heng.
Uncle, good Uncle; see the thin starv'd Rascal!
The eating Roman! Kill him, dear Uncle, kill him.
Car.
Do you make us Foxes?
Here, hold my Spear, and keep the place, Boy:
I am at Bay, and like a Bull I'll bear him.
Stand, stand ye Rogues; ye Squerrils.
[Exeunt.
Heng.
Look, how he pays 'em! O, that I had a Man's strength!
Enter Macer.
Mac.
A plague of your heavy Hands; I'm glad
I've escap'd you: Ha! Here's the Boy! My own,
I thank my Fortune.
40
O Lord! Uncle! Uncle! Famine is fall'n upon me, Uncle.
Mac.
Come, Sir; yield willingly: your Uncle's out of hearing.
Heark ye, Sirrah, give me the Spear; I shall
Tickle your young Tail else.
Heng.
I defie thee, than Mock-made-Man of Mat.
Heark'y, Sirrah; Charge home, or I shall tickle
Your lean Carcase for you.
Mac.
As I live, the Boy will beat me.
How it looks! Lookee, lookee; how the little Toad swells!
Ye little Rogue, you; yield, or I'll out your Head off.
Heng.
You cut my Head off, Sirrah? If I thought you
Had any Brains, I'de dash 'em out with the wrong end
Of my Uncle's Staff: Come on, I have twenty ways
To Charge thee; twenty Deaths attend my bloody Hand.
Mac.
Sure, 'tis the Devil, a Dwarf-Devil in a Doublet.
Enter Soldiers running.
Sold.
Fly! Fly Corporal! He comes, he comes.
Mac.
The Devil take the hindmost.
[Exeunt running.
Heng.
Ah you Rogues; you run-away Rogues.
He comes, he comes, he comes: That's he, Boys.
What a brave Cry they make.
Enter Catarach with a Head.
Car.
How does my Chicken?
Heng.
Faith Uncle, grown a Soldier, a great Soldier:
For by the Virtue of your Spear, and a strange
Fighting Face I put upon't, I have out-brav'd
Hunger.
Car.
That's my Boy, my sweet Boy: Here, here's
A Roman's Head for thee.
Heng.
And very good Provision, Uncle. Before I starve,
My pretty Gentleman, I shall make bold to taste
The sweetness of your Calves Head.
Car.
A right compleat Soldier; come Chicken,
Let's go seek some place of strength,
(The countrey's full of Scouts) to rest a while in;
Thou won't not else be able to endure
The Journey to my Countrey: Fruits and Water
Must be your Food awhile Boy.
Heng.
Any thing.
I can eat Moss! I can live on Anger,
To vex these Romans: Let's be wary, Uncle.
Car.
I'll warrant you.
Since you the fall of Britain have decreed;
41
O Ruggish! O Andate! Oh ye Powers!
Since you the Fall of Britain have decreed,
Let then your Votaries by these Romans bleed.
Rather than make us to the Conqueror Slaves,
Give them our Kingdom, and give us our Graves.
| Bonduca : or, The British Heroine | |