 | Brutus |  |
SCENE I.
ARUNS, ALBINUS, MESSALA.ARUNS.
[A Letter in his Hand.
Now in my bosom hope begins to build
On surer grounds; thy speedy care demands
My utmost thanks; prosperity attends;
And every lucky circumstance accords
With my warm wishes. Yes, inclosed, Albinus,
Within this letter is the fate of Rome,
The fate of Tarquin.—Didst thou in the camp
The purposed scheme concert? And regulate
The fatal hour? Hath the Quirinal gate
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Hinder the malecontents from yielding up
Their guarded post, is our assault prepared?
And valour ripe for action? Doth the king
Approve our services? Did he express
His satisfaction?—What is thy opinion?
Shall he re-enter Rome, bedew'd with blood,
Or prostrate, and submissive to his will?
ALBINUS.
All will be ready at the midnight hour.
Tarquin well-pleased, anticipates th'event
Of your designs; and fancy, to his eye
Holds forth the golden fruit. To you alone
Professing that he owes his crown; to you
A sum of gratitude beyond the claim
E'en of Porsenna.
ARUNS.
Either heaven itself,
Must interfere, those gods, whose hate pursues
Ill-destined Tarquin, to confound a plan
So great, so worthy their sublimer natures,
Or by to-morrow's sun, shall Rome again
Acknowledge him her lord. Rome sunk perhaps
In ashes, or deep deluged with her blood.
Better however thus, his throne regain'd,
To stretch the sceptre o'er obedient subjects,
Humbled by their afflictions; than to strive
With pains incessant, on a haughty race
To fix the curb, pamper'd by luxury,
Stubborn, and with rank, vicious humours fraught
By too much happiness.—The princess, here,
In secret I attend; go thou, Albinus.
Messala stay.
| Brutus | |