University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.

—A Street in Rome.
Enter Valerius and Lucretius.
Val.
Words are too feeble to express the horror
With which my soul revolts against this Tarquin.
By poison he obtain'd his brother's wife,
Then, by a baser murder, grasp'd the crown.
These eyes beheld the aged monarch, thrown
Down from the senate house,—his feeble limbs
Bruis'd by the pavement,—his time-honour'd locks
Which, from the very robber would have gain'd
Respect and veneration,—bath'd in blood!
With difficulty rais'd, and tottering homeward,
The murderers follow'd—struck him—and he died!

Luc.
Inexpiable crime!

Val.
High in her regal chariot Tullia came—
The corpse lay in the street. The charioteer
Turn'd back the reins in horror. “On slave, on!
“Shall dead men stop my passage to a throne?”
Exclaim'd the parricide. The gore was dash'd
From the hot wheels up to her diadem!

Luc.
And Heaven's avenging lightnings were withheld!
Here rules this Tullia, while the king, her husband
Wastes our best blood in giddy, guilty war!
Spirit of Marcus Junius!—Would the gods
Deign to diffuse thy daring through the land
Rome from her trance with giant spirit would start,
Dash off her fetters and amaze the world!

Val.
Junius didst say? Oh! tyranny long since
Had sunk—chain'd—buried in its native hell—
But Tarquin, trembling at his virtues, murder'd
Him and his elder son. The younger, Lucius
Then on his travels, 'scap'd the tyrant's sword
But lost his reason at their fearful fall.

Luc.
Aye, the same Lucius who now dwells with Tarquin;—
The just, the fool, the laughing stock o'th' court
Whom the young princes always carry with 'em
To be the butt of their unfeeling mirth.

Val.
Hold. I hear steps. Great things may yet be done
If we are men and faithful to our country

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Camp before Ardea.
Enter Claudius and Aruns, laughing.
Aruns.
There is no doctor for the spleen like Lucius!
What precious scenes of folly did he act
When, lately, through the unknown seas of Greece
He went with us to Delphi!—But behold!
Where full of bussiness his wise worship comes!

Enter Lucius Junius.
Claud.
Whither so fast, good Junius, tell us whither?

Luc.
To Rome, to Rome—the queen demands my presence.
The state needs aid and I am call'd to court.
Am I a fool? If so, you cannot say
I'm the first fool grac'd by a monarch's favour.

Aruns.
Why, Junius, travel has improv'd thy wit,
Thou speakest shrewdly.

Luc,
Do I so, my lord?
I'm always glad when you and I agree;
You have just such a wit as I should choose.
Would I could purchase such!—though it might split
My head, as confin'd air does—water bubbles!

Claud.
How say you? Purchase? Pr'ythee what would'st give?

Luc.
What would I give?—ten acres of my land!

Aruns.
Thy land! Where lies it?

Luc.
Ask the king, my cousin:
He knows full well. I thank him, he's my steward,
And takes the trouble off my hands.

Claud.
Who told thee so?

Luc.
The king himself. Now twenty years are past,
Or more,—since he sent for me from my farm.
“Kinsman,” said he, with a kind, gracious smile,
“For the black crime of treason which was charg'd
“Against thy father and thy elder brother,
“Their lives have paid: for thee, as I love mercy,
“Live and be happy: simple is thy mind”—

Aruns.
True, kinsman, true—i'faith 'tis wondrous simple.

Luc.
“And that simplicity will be a pledge
“That thou wilt never plot against thy sovereign”—

Claud.
Indeed, for that, I'll be thy bondsman, Junius

Luc.
“Live in my house, companion of my children.
“As for thy land, to ease thee of all care
“I'll take it for thy use; all that I ask
“Of thee, is gratitude.”

Aruns.
And art thou not
Grateful for goodness so unmerited?

Luc.
Am I not? Never, by the holy gods
Will I forget it! 'Tis my constant pray'r
To heaven, that I may one day have the pow'r
To pay the debt I owe him. But stay—stay—
I brought a message to you from the king.

Aruns.
Thank the gods, then, for thy good memory, fool!

Luc.
The king your father sends for you to council,
Where he debates how best to conquer Ardea.
Shall I before, and tell him ye are coming?

Claud.
Aye, or behind, or with us, or stay here—
As thy wit prompts,—as suits thy lofty pleasure.

[Exeunt Aruns and Claudius laughing.
Luc.
(alone)
Yet, 'tis not that which ruffles me—the gibes
And scornful mockeries of ill-govern'd youth—
Or flouts of dastard sycophants and jesters,
Reptiles, who lay their bellies on the dust
Before the frown of majesty!—All this
I but expect, nor grudge to bear;—the face
I carry, courts it!—Son of Marcus, Junius!
When will the tedious gods permit thy soul
To walk abroad in her own majesty
And throw this vizor of thy madness from thee?
To avenge my father's and my brother's murder!
(And sweet I must confess would be the draught!)
Had this been all—a thousand opportunities
I've had to strike the blow—and my own life
I had not valued as a rush—But still—
There's something nobler to be done—my soul!
Enjoy the strong conception. Oh! 'tis glorious
To free a groaning country—
To seek Revenge
Spring like a lion from its den, and tear
These hunters of mankind! Grant but the time,
Grant but the moment, gods! If I am wanting,
May I drag out this idiot-feigned life
To late old age, and may posterity
Ne'er hear of Junius but as Tarquin's fool!

[Exit Lucius Junius.

SCENE III.

Rome.
A State Apartment in the Palace of Tullia.
Enter Tullia, preceded by Guards, Banner Bearers, Ladies,—and followed by Valerius. She appears perturbed, and speaks apart.
Tul.
(apart.)
Why should the steady mind to shadows yield?
And yet this vision shakes my frame with horror?
I thought his spirit thunder'd in my ear
“Remember, when, with wild ambition's frenzy
“And all Rome's empire in your view, you drove
“You chariot wheels o'er your dead father's body,
“Up to the shouting forum!” Why, my soul,
Dost thou not shun remembrance of that hour?
'Twas but the cause—the cause—For this base clay
How differs it from the dull earth we tread on
When the life's gone?—But, next, the Sybil came.
Whose mystic book at such a price we bought
And cried, “The race of Tarquin shall be Kings
“Till a fool drive them hence and set Rome free!”
Strange prophecy!—What fool?—It cannot be
That poor dolt, the companion of my sons—
—Hark thee, Valerius—Know'st thou that same fool
Now in the camp.

Val.
I know him well.—A man
Who, when he had a name, was Lucius Junius:—
A braver citizen Rome never boasted,
And wise and learn'd withal; now chang'd, alas!
A spectacle which humbles me to look on!

Tul.
But is he harmless in his moody humours?

Val.
Tame as my horse, which though devoid of reason
Shall turn, shall stop, and at my angry bidding
Shall kneel, till I am throned on his back!
And this shall Junius; the like instinct stirs
Junius and him,—no more.

Tul.
(apart)
Hence, idle fears!
—Yet, when he went to Delphi, 'tis giv'n out
The oracle address'd him with strange portents
And each night since, my dreams have been disturb'd
By a wild form, too much resembling his,
Leading our soldiers forth with sword and flame,
Revolters from the camp, to storm the palace.
But he is sent from thence and shall be watch'd.

Enter Horatius.
Hor.
Your orders are obey'd. Lucius awaits

Tul.
Set him before us.
[Exit Hor.
(To Valerius.)
Tell me, will he answer
If we do question him?

Val.
I think he will:
Yet sometimes when the moody fit doth take him
He will not speak for days; yea, rather starve
Than utter nature's cravings; then anon,
He'll prattle shrewdly, with such witty folly
As almost betters reason.

Horatius returns with Lucius Junius.
Tul.
Hark thee, fellow,
How art thou call'd?

Lucius.
A fool.

Tul.
Fool for thy nature;
Thou answers't well,—but I demand thy name.

Lucius.
Nothing but fool.

Tul.
His faculties are brutish;—
BRUTUS shall be thy name.

Brutus.
Thanks to your grace!

Hor.
Dost like thy new name, gentle brute?

Br.
So well,
Who will may take the fool. I care not who—
Your Highness, an it like you.

Hor.
I the fool!
Sirrah, good words, or I will have thee beaten.

Br.
A fool thou wilt not beat—a brute thou dar'st not,
For the dull ass will kick against his striker,
If struck too harshly.

Tul.
Let me hear no more;
There's mischief in his folly. Send him hence.
But stay—I'll search him farther.—hark thee, Brutus,
Thou wast at Delphi, with our sons the Princes—
Tell me—what questions put they to Apollo?

Br.
Your sons, did ask who should be chief in Rome.

Tul.
Hah! What replied the oracle to that?

Br.
With pains and strugglings the prophetic dame
This destiny reported from her god—
“Great and most glorious shall that Roman be,
“Who first shall greet his mother with a kiss.”

Tul.
That is fulfill'd by Sextus.

Hor.
Aye, he straight
Hasten'd from thence and kissed the queen his mother.

Br.
Woe for me, I have no mother!—
And yet I kiss'd her first.

Tul.
Thou kiss'd her? Thou?

Br.
Yea, madam, for just then my foot did slip
In the fresh blood of a new-slaughter'd victim,
And, falling, I did kiss my mother—earth.

Tul.
Oh, that the earth had swallow'd thee outright
Till thou hads't kiss'd the centre! I perceive,
The gods are leagued with folly to destroy us.
My very blood chills at my heart.—Away.

[Exit Tullia, with Guards and Ladies.
Hor.
Hark thee, thou Brutus; I in part suspect
Thou ap'st this folly; if I find thee trifling
Or juggling with the Pythia for predictions,
By all the gods I'll have thee flay'd, thy skin
Strip'd into thongs, to strangle thee withal,
Dissembling varlet!—Strikes Brutus, who seizes him.

Val.
Shame, my lord! forbear!
Threat'ning a fool you do but wrong yourself.

Hor.
But that the princes love his son, brave Titus,
My dagger should have pierc'd his threat ere now
And sent him to his mother earth for ever!
He shall be watch'd.—Come, come with me, Valerious.
[Exit Horatius

Val.
The gods restore thee, Brutus, to thyself,
And us to thee! Farewell!

Br.
(alone)
A little longer,
A little longer yet support me, patience!
The day draws on: it presses to the birth—
I see it in the forming womb of time—
The embryo liberty.—Hah!—'tis my son—
Down, rebel nature, down!—

Enter Titus.
Tit.
Welcome to Rome!
Would I might welcome thee to reason too!

Br.
Give me thy hand—nay, give it me—

Tit.
What woud'st thou?
Speak to thy son.

Br.
I had a thing to say,
But I have lost it. Let it pass—no matter.

Tit.
Look not upon me with those eyes, but speak;
What is it that annoys thee? tell thy friend—
How can I serve thee? What dost lack?

Br.
Preferment.
Thou can'st do much at court.

Tit.
Ah, this is nothing!

Br.
So much the fitter for a fools petition,
And a court promise.

Tit.
Oh, this trifling racks me.

Br.
Lend me thine ear: I'll tell a secret to thee
Worth a whole city's ransom. This it is;
Nay, ponder it, and lock it in thy heart—
There are more fools, my son, in this wise world
Than the gods ever made.

Tit.
Say'st thou, my father?
Expound this riddle. If thy mind doth harbour
Aught that imports a son like me to know,
Or knowing to atchieve, declare it.

Br.
Now, my son
Should the great gods, who made me what thou see'st,
Repent and in their vengeance cast upon me
The burden of my senses back again—
What would'st thou say?

Ti.
Oh, my lamented father,
Would the kind gods restore thee to thy reason—

Br.
Then, Titus, then I should be mad with reason.
Had I the sense to know myself a Roman,
This hand should tear this heart from out my ribs
Ere it should own allegiance to a tyrant.
If, therefore, thou dost love me, pray the gods
To keep me what I am. Where all are slaves,
None but the fool is happy.

Ti.
We are Romans—
Not slaves—

Br.
Not slaves? Why, what art thou?

Ti.
Thy son.
Dost thou not know me?

Br.
You abuse my folly.
I know thee not—Wert thou my son, ye gods!
Thou would'st tear off this sycophantic robe,
Tuck up thy tunick, trim these curled locks
To the short warrior-cut, vault on thy steed;
Then scouring through the city, call to arms,
And shout for liberty—

Ti.
(starst)
Defend me, gods!

Br.
Hah! does it stagger thee?

Ti.
For liberty?
Said'st thou for liberty?—It cannot be.

Br.
Indeed!—'tis well—no more.

Ti.
What would my father?

Br.
Begone, you trouble me.

Ti.
Nay, do not scorn me.

Br.
Said I for liberty? I said it not;
The awful word breath'd in a coward's ear,
Were sacrilege to utter, Hence, begone!
Said I, you were my son?—'Tis false: I'm foolish;
My brain is weak and wanders; you abuse it.

Ti.
Ah, do not leave me; not in anger leave me.

Br.
Anger! What's that? I am content with folly;
Anger is madness, and above my aim!
(Musick heard)
Hark! here is musick for thee,—food for love,
And beauty to serve in the rich repast.
Tarquinia comes. Go, worship the bright sun,
And let poor Brutus wither in the shade.
[Exit. Brutus

Ti.
Oh, truly said! bright as the golden sun
Tarquinia's beauty beams, and I adore!
Soft musick. Tarquinia enters, preceded by damsels bearing a crown of gold, some with censers, &c. proper for the ceremonials of a dedication to Fortune.
What dedication, or what holy service
Doth the fair client of the gods provide?
In the celestial synod is there one
Who will not listen to Tarquinia's prayer?

Tar.
I go to Fortune's Temple, to suspend
Upon the votive shrine, this golden crown.
While incense fills the fane, and holy hymns
Are chanted for my brother's safe return.
What shall I ask for Titus?

Ti.
Tho' the goddess,
In her blind bounty should unthrone the world,
To build me one vast empire, my ambition,
If by thy love unblest, would slight the gift:
Therefore of Fortune I have nought to ask—
She hath no interest in Tarquinia's heart,
Nature, not Fortune, must befriend me there.

Tar.
Thy gentle manners, Titus, have endear'd thee!
Although a subject Roman, to Tarquinia:
My brother Sextus wears thee next his heart;
The Queen herself, of all our courtly youth
First in her favour holds the noble Titus:
And though my royal father well may keep
A jealous eye upon thy Junian race,—
A race unfriendly to the name of king,—
Yet, thee he cherishes; with generous joy
The monarch sees thy early virtue shoot,
And with a parent's fondness, rears its growth.

Ti.
Oh! neither name, nor nature, nor the voice
Of my lost father, could he wake to reason,
Not all the wrongs that tyranny could pile
On my afflicted head,—not all the praise
That patriot gratitude could shower upon me,
Can shake the faithful purpose of my soul
To sever it from love and my Tarquinia.

Tar.
Approve that firmness in the shock of trials,
And if my love can recompense thy virtue,
Nor tortures, nor temptations, nor the wreck
Of Rome and empire, shall divide me from thee.
To this I pledge my hand. Now to the Temple!

[Exeunt omnes.