 | The Tragedy of Sertorius |  |
SCEN. I.
FULVIA.Not subtil Fire, from Jove's Olympus hurl'd
In Airy tracts to mortal eyes recluse,
Can be more deadly than the Plots I've form'd;
The old, the young, the dull Saturnine Soul,
And him whose lightness is Cyllenius like,
Wander the pleasant Maze; so form'd by thought,
And by the Magic of my beauty Charm'd:
So the dull Pilot from the Helm is drawn;
Rapt with the Extasy of sound, which bears
Inevitable bane, from Syrens Tongues.
Greatness, in my Perpenna, 'tis I aim;
And, while in Fields he steals the Soldiers hearts,
I'll make a greater conquest here at home.
| The Tragedy of Sertorius | |