University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

DOLABELLA, VERRES.
Dolabella.
I could almost repent me that I came:
A little later—

Verres.
Had been all too late.
So violent an insult on the name
Of Roman, then shall pass unvindicated?

Dolabella.
I must be of opinion, that the insult
Keeps just proportion with the provocation.
For what could violence itself do more,
Than ravish from a father's arms his daughter,
To violate her honour in your own?

Verres.
There might be that, my lord, may want excuse,
But not much blame. If I went self-invited,
It was because these misers grudge t'expose
Their statues, pictures, gems—you know I'm curious.
Wine and young blood must plead for all that follow'd.

Dolabella.
Rather too curious. For they tell me, Verres,
That your immense collection is extended,
By rapine and extortion, to a size
That even beggars all that Rome possesses.

Verres.
My lord, I gather for myself and friends.
And, by the by, 'tis long since I observ'd
A vacant base stand in your vestibule.
I have a master-piece of art, an heifer
So exquisitely cast, such through nature,
The work of Myro, life is in the brass,
It would with dignity supply the vacancy.

Dolabella.
I know it by report, the very same
So many Grecian wits have celebrated.

Verres.
I vow, my lord, I've started twenty times,
And thought she low'd—but, as to this affair,
I do assure you, what concerns me most
Is the indignity the state endures.

Dolabella.
A state is more dishonour'd in protecting
Th'infringer of the sacred rights of nature.

Verres.
My lord, share my collection as you please.
I hope, when you reflect on th'injury,
In your immediate Legate, done to Rome,
Besides my birth, 'twill move you to out-bear me
Thro' any slight deficiency of form.

Dolabella.
Believe me, I'm desirous to assist you.
But of so ugly nature is your crime,
I know not where to turn me to effect it.

Verres.
Cornelius slain, and Rubrius sorely wounded,
Direct your vengeance to both perpetrators.
I don't know if you ever thought worth minding
Th'entaglio which I wear upon this finger:
View it, my lord, the subject's somewhat wanton.
See how that Leda clasps in her crisp arms
Her am'rous swan, who ruffles ev'ry feather.
The figure was design'd from my Chelidon
(Poor wench! dying, she left me all her treasure.)
I have been tempted to destroy this ring
A thousand times. The counterfeit resemblance
Makes me quite mad, when I behold her beauties
Tasted by Jove himself.—Would you would wear it
If only to preserve it from my jealousy.

Dolabella.
And am beholden to you—but to murther
Two innocent men, of elevated stations,
Only that they resisted your attempt—
I should not like to have such matter argued,
Before the senate, by your men of virtue.

Verres.
My friends at Rome, my lord, bought, and to buy,
Will bear us through. Who cares there for the provinces,
Shrowded in distance from their thought and notice?
Then—pray, my Lord; what makes a man of virtue?
To sell one's knav'ry dearer than another.
I had almost forgot—'tis but a trifle—
Knowing the vast expences of your state,
Long since I laid aside a little present—
With your permission I will bring it to you
To-morrow morning; nay, 'tis nothing more
Than some poor hundred thousand sesterces.

Dolabella.
I thank you for your love, and I accept them.
Why, as you say, in such a distant province—
The majesty of Rome—Cornelius slain—
And your high birth—require this vindication.
Where are the prisoners?

Verres.
They wait without;
And, were I to advise, immediate sentence
Were doubly useful, by impressing awe
Of your authority, and stifling tumults.

Dolabella.
And you say well; let them appear before us.
Verres, be you and Sestius my assessors;
So, take your seats. Bring in the prisoners.

Voices
within.
Stand by!
Make room!
Give way, there, to the prisoners.