University of Virginia Library

SCENE changes to the Governor's Palace.
Enter Sicoris and Murrus.
Sic.
No more; but go, and do what I enjoin thee:
Submit thee to the Virtue thou hast wrong'd,
Make Peace with him, or hope it not with me.

Mur.
Would then my Father so debase his Son,
To have him cringe and fawn upon a Roman?
Shall I with servile Looks, and forc'd Obeisance
Approach his Pride, and poorly crave his Pardon?
Pardon, for what? in what has he been injur'd?
And is not yet his Treach'ry manifest?
Why, if he meant us well, did he refrain
To meet the Tyrian in the bloody Field,
But, that his Falshood might not there confront him?

Sic.
Too well thou know'st the Cause that kept him absent,
A just Disdain, and honest Pride of Soul,
For which thy Country has severely suffer'd;
While, rashly trusting to the noisy Boasts
Of talking Warriors, she has lost a Hero.

Mur.
Patience, good Heav'n, or I shall burst with Rage;
My rising Passion quite choaks up my Words:
How! talking Warrior! have I liv'd to hear
That shameful Title given me by my Father?

Sic.
I wish I had a better to bestow;
Behold yon Plain, see there the recent Dead;
Does not that View upbraid thy late Behaviour?
These from thy Arm expected their Protection;
They fell, but thou—

Mur.
I know what you would say,
I fled; 'tis true, but yet the last I fled.

Sic.
Too soon the last—

Mur.
—I am not Hercules;
Nor was my Arm indu'd with Power celestial,
To conquer Armies, and force Destiny.
What was it more I could have done?

Sic.
—Have died.

Mur.
I might, indeed; but had my Death avail'd
My Country? living, I may do her Service,
When better Fortune shall attend our Arms.

Sic.
Make good thy words; for e'er the setting Sun
Shall hide his flaming Chariot in the Main,
A last, and desperate Effort we'll try;
Now, while the Tyrian, fell'd by Theron's Arm,
Has giv'n his Troops to see he can be vanquish'd.
If then we meet Repulse, why farewell Hope,
And welcome Death: the City's Fate is fix'd.
In the mean time, I charge thee, seek out Fabius;
Be reconcil'd, or see my Face no more.

[Exit.
Mur.
Then I shall see thy Face no more, stern Man!
Injurious Parent! to enjoin a Deed
My Soul disdains, and Honour too forbids.
Submit! and beg he would be reconcil'd!
Hold there, my Heart—no! if he can divest
So easily the Sire, I can put off the Son.
Enter Eurydamas.
Eurydamas, thou'rt come in happy Time
To share, and, sharing, to assist my Grief;
Grief, did I say?—Now out upon the word:
I meant, my Rage; and so I should have call'd it.

Eur.
His Greeting likes me; the Scene opens well.
[Aside.
Who is it, Murrus, thus has dar'd to stir thee?

Mur.
Would I might call him by some other Name,
Than that of Father; then should my good Sword
Wipe off the foul Aspersions on my Honour.
O Friend, had'st thou beheld how I was treated,
Reproach'd as faithless, taunted as a Coward!
Am I a Coward? Is not my Country's Cause
Here at my Heart? Speak, and declare me wrong'd.

Eur.
Impossible, I think, thy Father thus could act,
And, but thou sayst it, 'twould surpass Belief.

Mur.
Nay more, by Heav'n, he has with Threats enjoyn'd
Most vile Submission to the Man I hate,
The favour'd Rival of my Fame and Love.
But why does that soft Passion now come cross me?

Eur.
Wherefore, indeed? I could have wish'd the War,
With its sad Consequence, thy ruin'd Country,
Thy hopeless Flame for an ungrateful Woman,
Who, slighting thee, doats on a cursed Roman,
Had from thy Bosom driv'n the puny God.

Mur.
Alas! too strongly has he ta'en Possession
Of my weak Breast; which now against my self
He fortifies, impregnable to Reason;
That, like a Roman, at my utmost Need
Forsakes, and poorly yields me to my Foe.
Yet would I have thee think it noble Pride,
And generous Disdain that urges my Pursuit;
I would not ev'n in Love know a Superior,
But, as in War, surmount all Opposition.

Eur.
Then thou shouldst act the prudent Warrior's Part,
Not fondly grasp at things impossible;
For little less than such are thy vain Hopes:
Suppose, which yet we know is far from Truth,
Her Heart estrang'd from Fabius, can you think,
Those Arms, imbru'd in her lov'd Father's Blood,
Shall ever clasp her in the Folds of Love?

Mur.
Thou seest, for her I have forgot my Brother;
Beneath her biting Ax fell the unhappy Youth.

Eur.
And shall their Blood cement your growing Friendship,
Inspire soft Love, and kindle am'rous Flames?
Shocking to Thought! no, tis too sure this way
Thou never canst succeed:—and yet there is—

Mur.
Another, thou wouldst say: my more than Friend,
My better Genius.

Eur.
—Most true there is; but—

Mur.
Why dost thou hesitate, and bar my Joy?

Eur.
First it behoves thee, Murrus, well to weigh
Our lost Condition, and the City's State;
Not many Suns can we sustain the Siege,
And the surviving Few shall then be Slaves;
'Mongst those my Name shall never be enroll'd.

Mur.
I need not say my Soul too scorns the Thought.

Eur.
What hinders, but that thou shouldst seize thy Bliss,
And, in a lucky Hour, forestall thy Fate?
The means are in my Hands, embrace th'Occasion.

Mur.
Thou wouldst not have me ravish!

Eur.
Canst thou think
An Amazon is won by whining Courtship,
Or that she ever shall complain of Force?
The bold impetuous Warrior still they chuse,
In strict Embraces strain the struggling Youth,
Who, nobly daring, gratefully offends,
And spares their Cheek the Blush of dull Consent.

Mur.
My Soul is stagger'd at the horrid Deed.

Eur.
Why then let Fabius go; for e'er an Hour
Be past, disguis'd he meets her in the Temple;
For what, I leave to thy Imagination;
But sure, I think, they mean not cool Discourse:
Yet had it pleas'd thee, thou hadst fill'd his Place.

Mur.
Ha! thou hast rous'd all that is Man within me;
The thought of Rivalship has fir'd my Blood:
Shall Fabius revel in extatick Joys,
And in her Arms, once more with Pride elate,
Insult, with double Triumph, wretched Murrus?
Remorse, be gone; avaunt, thou Bugbear, Conscience.
Did now the City blaze with Tyrian Flames,
And the lost Firebrands cast their dreadful Gleam,
In streaming Fires around the sacred Fane,
Shrieking, and clinging to the Shrine, I'd force her,
Another Semele enjoy'd in Flames.
Yet could I wish, so much I love the Fair,
To different Fates the ancient Tale were turn'd,
The Nymph might be preserv'd, the Lover burn'd.

[Exeunt.
Enter Sicoris, Theron and Timandra.
Sic.
I have already charg'd thy haughty Brother,
T'implore his Pardon, and confess him injur'd;
Go thou, and with Love's powerful Rhet'rick strive
T'inforce the Plea, and win him to our Aid.

Ther.
The Task is only thine, thou charming Maid;
Alone thou know'st the Workings of his Soul,
Its secret Avenues and softer Moments.

Sic.
Think what a noble Cause employs thy Tongue,
Thy ancient Father, and thy mourning Country,
And both their Blessings shall attend thy Suit.

Tim.
Oh, with what Joy I readily accept,
With how much Pleasure shall perform the Task,
With how great Rapture, if Success should crown it!
And is there ought he shall refuse Timandra?
I go, I fly, nor will I quit my Heroe,
Till Love shall send him dreadful to the Field.

[Exit.
Sic.
Hast Thou, as we agreed, employ'd the Priests,
To learn the People's utmost Resolution,
To try their strength of Soul, and know, if now
The Gods prove adverse to our last Attempt,
And Hope be lost, they dare to plunge in Flames,
And, self devoting, disappoint their Foes?

Ther.
I have my self been talking with their Chiefs;
Not one of all averse to the Design,
So firm their Love of Liberty, and Faith:
The noble Warmth inspires the very Matrons,
Who dancing in their Arms their famish'd Babes,
Cry, hush! my Boy, an end of Woes is nigh:
And since it was not giv'n thy infant Arm,
To fight thy Country's Battles, perish with her.

Sic.
Then all is well; at least, in our sad State:
Then let the barbarous Foe insult our Walls,
The naked Ruins where Saguntum stood.
Our freeborn Sons in Freedom shall expire;
Visit th'Elysian Fields, all true, all brave,
And not a single Soul descend the Shades a Slave.

[Exeunt.
Enter Fabius and Timandra.
Fab.
Cease to request that which I dare not grant,
What rigid Honour to my Will denies:
Wouldst thou of that lov'd Equal with thy self
His other Consolation, rob thy Fabius?

Tim.
What is this Idol Honour, that exacts
Such horrid Worship, and such cruel Rites?
Can nought less than a Peoples Blood atone
A single Violation of her Law?

Fab.
Sacred they are, and by the great and brave
Beheld at Distance with Religious Awe,
Nor, when invaded by the profane Vulgar,
Demand a slight and petty Reparation.

Tim.
Yet Heav'n it self is mov'd by Penitence,
And the red Bolt, brandish'd aloft in Air,
Is wrested from the ready Arm of Jove;
Who, in Compassion to our frailer Nature,
Oft suffers seeming Violence from Pray'r:
And dost thou boast his Lineage, yet put off
That gentle Virtue, in which he delights?

Fab.
Thou talkst as if I were indeed a God,
And Fate depended upon my Volition.

Tim.
Alas! I find thee mortal by thy Passions,
Resenting, wrathful, and inexorable,
Yet once I ne'er could thus have thought of Fabius.

Fab.
My Heart is riven asunder by thy Words;
Take here my Sword, rip up my Bosom quick;
See there the Pow'r thou hast to be obey'd
In any Thing but this.

Tim.
—Tis this alone
Shall give the Proof, and evidence thy Love.
This if thou canst refuse, thou dost abandon
The lost Timandra to some Ruffian's Arms;
Who then, as now, with streaming Eyes, in vain,
Shall deprecate the fierce Barbarian's Rage.

Fab.
The Thought is terrible; thou hast o'ercome;
I go, but first permit this last Embrace:
Did not Persuasion hang upon thy Tongue,
Did not thy Words thus soft, and mournful flow,
Who could resist those moving, speaking Drops,
That sparkle in thy Eyes with trembling Lustre?
Thus when her Son on Phrygian Plains lay dead,
In humid Clouds Aurora veil'd her Head;
Her rosy Cheeks thro' the dim Crystal glow
With fainter Colours, and confess her Woe;
Sadly her radiant Eyes the Tears adorn,
Yet in the fragrant Dew more sweetly rose the Morn.

[Exit.
Tim.
And now, methinks, I tremble at my Conquest;
Tumultuous Fears run shiv'ring through my Limbs:
Alas! to what a dreadful Field I've sent him?
And, if he falls, I lose—good Gods! what shall I lose?
The bravest Man, and most sincere of Lovers.
Fatal his Sword in Battle to his Foes,
Dreadful his Wrath, while the shrill Trumpet sounds:
But when the charming Youth divests the Warriour,
And fierce Bellona yields him up to Venus,
With what bewitching Softness does he look!
With what endearing Tenderness he talks!
The artless Tale of Love, that from his Lips
Flows in soft Murmurs, like a limpid Stream,
Attracts my whole Attention, and my Love.
While Philomela thus her Strains renews,
Deep in the shady Covert, cloath'd in Dews;
The soft melodious Notes, that charm the Heart,
Approach Perfection, as they mock all Art.

[Exit.