University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Enter Brutus, and Marcus a young Patriot.
Brutus.
It must be so—our fates are too unkind.
Who would have thought, beneath an air of virtue.
Solemn grimace, and proffer of fair deeds,
Should lurk such boseness—To see the Patriot,
Reeking in gore, excites the keenest transport,
Oh! my poor country! when I see thee wounded,
Bleeding to death—it pains me to the soul
Long have I wept in secret—nay, could weep
'Till tears were chang'd to blood—When will it be,
When high-soul'd honor beats within our bosoms,
And calls to action—when thy sons like heroes,
Shall dare assert thy rights, and with their swords
Like men, like freemen, force a way to conquest
Or on thy ruins gloriously expire.—

Marcus.
Oh! Brutus, you excite a generous transport.
In such a cause, pleas'd could I bare my bosom,
And pour my choicest blood—yes, I have seen,
Tho' young I've seen, such crimes by ermind wretches,
As would have shock'd a century, one thing I wonder,
That deeds so foul should find such warm abettors.

Brutus.
You little know the world—there greater vices,
Lead to preferment, the man of honest mind,
Whose generous soul disdains a grov'ling action.
And grasps alone at virtue—sinks neglected:
Yes, my young friend, would you be great and powerful
Loaded with wealth and honor, be a rascall,
Stoop low and cringe—stick not at oaths, nor let
Thy shrinking soul, start at the thought of MURDER,
Then to Rapatio go, and Hazlerod,
And all the band shall give an hearty welcome.

Marcus.
Oh no! I scorn it—better live a poor man,
And die so too—while virtue and my conscience,
Speak peace within—better, tho' hate and malice,
May shoot their shafts against me—better thus
To make my Exit, while the soul with comfort
Reviews the past and smiles upon the future.

Brutus.
Yes, Marcus, poverty must be thy fate,
If thou'rt thy country's friend—Think upon it
When I'm gone, as soon perhaps I may be
Remember it—those men whose crimes now shock,
May close their measures—Yes, the wish'd for period
May soon arrive, when murders, blood and carnage,
Shall crimson all these streets; when this poor country
Shall loose her richest blood, forbid it heaven!
And may these monsters find their glories fade,
Crush'd in the ruins they themselves had made,
While thou my country, shall again revive,
Shake off misfortune, and thro' ages live.
See thro' the waste a ray of virtue gleame,
Dispell the shades and brighten all the scene.
Wak'd into life, the blooming forest glows.
And all the desart blossoms as the rose.
From distant lands see virtuous millions fly
To happier climates, and a milder sky.
While on the mind successive pleasures pour,
'Till time expires, and ages are no more.

[Exeunt omnes.