 | Horace |  |
112
SCEN. VI.
Horace, Proculus.PROCULUS.
What have you done?
HORACE.
That which I not repent
Her crime deserv'd no less a punishment.
PROCU.
This rigor in a brother seem'd too great,
HORACE.
The name of sister I must now forget,
Her execrations has remov'd her place
And all her title to th'Horatian Race,
Her treacherous prayers her just resentment warm'd
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Her curses should, before they are fulfil'd
(As Monsters births as soon as born) be kill'd.
SCEN. VII.
To them Sabina.SABINA.
Why should not this brave fury still proceed,
And your pleas'd Eyes on that fair object feed,
Camilla in her Fathers arms expir'd?
If with these generous strokes you are not tir'd,
Why should you not to your dead Sister joyn
The sad remainders of the Alban Line?
Our sufferings like our sins should equal be;
She but laments for one, and I for three;
Her crime no longer could resist your will,
Mine trelbes hers, and yet continues still.
HORACE,
Your tears (Sabina) or my sight forbear,
Seem not unworthy of the name you bear,
My dearest half, and let our mutual flame
Which is and was, be ever still the same;
Let both our minds be one, and since to thine
I cannot condescend, grow up to mine.
I feel the grief which gives thee this transport
Borrow my Strength thy weakness to support:
My honor do not envy but partake,
And mine for once thy own example make;
Of two great families thy self and I
Are only left, then why should either dye?
SABINA.
Finde greater souls to emulate your own
Than mine; the sorrows under which I grown,
Alas! not you but my misfortune wrought,
Towards you I have no misbecoming thought:
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To purchase that must sell humanity.
Can the deplored Sister of the dead,
Like a great Conquerors Wife advance her head?
Let publick Trophies publick Joys adorn,
Whilst we in private, private losses mourn,
Nor value goods which common are to all,
Whilst on our selves domestick mischiefs fall.
When thou cam'st in thou might'st have left thy State
Behind thee, and thy Laurels at the Gate,
Mixing thy tears with mine. This vain discourse
Gives me no comfort, but much more remorse;
Thy rage my crime redoubl'd could not fire;
Camilla's happy she hath her desire,
Justly to her that love thou did'st restore
Of which by thee she had been rob'd before:
Let now the belov'd Author of my grief
Punish my guilt, or give my tears relief.
'Tis strange that neither favour nor offence
My merits, nor my crimes can recompense;
Nor one nor other shall unwelcome come
When from a Husband I receive my doome.
HORACE.
Ye gods, when ye did first to Woman trust
The Empire of Man's Soul you were unjust.
Strange! that such weak assailants still should win
The Field, and our unguarded hearts take in.
Where art thou lost? my vertue either fly,
Or leave thy tears, else thou or I must dye.
(Exeunt all but Sabina.
SABIN.
Anger and pity deaf to my desires,
Both fly my crimes, and both my sorrow tires:
If neither grace nor punishment I have,
When dead I shall find quiet in my grave.
Exit.
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