University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Octavia and Fulvia.
Octavia.
It will not be; in vain my Mother pleads;
My Heart is fix'd, and it can never change.

Fulvia.
I know you love Posthumius; but, my Child,
Review our State; Rome's Liberty is lost;
Sylla's her Master; he invites your Hand,
And his despotic Will must be obey'd.

Octavia.
Let Sylla reign o'er the resistless Globe,
He cannot o'er my Heart; 'tis thine Posthumius:
Yet should he die—Octavia ne'er shall wed.

SCENE II.

Octavia, Fulvia, Lentulus, and Posthumius.
Posthumius.
What do I hear my lov'd Octavia say?
Am I to lose you? And must Sylla then—

Octavia.
Fear not, my Lord; shall I forget the Love,
The faithful Love, which you so oft have sworn?
The Services, which you have done our House?
Shall I forget my Love? A Roman I,
And, in the Palace of the oppressive Tyrant,
I crouch! a fawning, abject, wretched Slave?
No! Death alone shall tear thee from my Heart.

Posthumius.
Too gen'rous Woman! truly Roman born!
How can I this Fidelity repay
To you, who merit to command the World?

Lentulus.
Repay it with the Liberty of Rome;
By Sylla's Death, that Tyrant Sylla's Death.
Thy Country calls! what's more, Octavia calls!

Posthumius.
His Guards secure him, and his Pow'r's too great;
And yet—tho' much we to our Country owe,
The Means of Vengeance are not in our Hands:
The Veterans—

Lentulus.
AIR.
When the Heart by Love inspir'd,
By exulting Glory fir'd,
Hears its hapless Country's Voice;
Her Assistance is its Choice.
Soon the Patriot Aid succeeds,
And Tyranny detested bleeds.
[Exit Lentulus.

SCENE III.

Enter to them Metellus.
Metellus,
The Senate's met, and Sylla ask's a Triumph:
Haste thither, for the Time demands your Presence.

Posthumius.
AIR. (to Octavia.)

[Exit Posthumius.

SCENE IV.

Octavia, Fulvia, Metellus.
Octavia.
What Pangs I feel, what Fears invade my Breast!
The Gods protect and guide my dearest Love.

Metellus.
AIR.
[Exit Metellus.

SCENE V.

Octavia, Fulvia.
Fulvia.
What can'st thou fear? Is it ill Fortune then
That Sylla loves—what! the Dictator's Wife.

Octavia.
Ambition never tempts a Lover's Heart;
Gentle Posthumius is to me a God;
Sylla the worst of Tyrants, and of Men.

Fulvia.
AIR.
[Exit Fulvia.

SCENE VI.

Octavia
sola.
She who talks thus has surely never lov'd;
Were he the meanest in the Roman State,
My Lord's to me more estimable far,
Than him who rules the Master of the World.

AIR.
Exit Fulvia.

SCENE VII.

The Inside of the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus; Sylla, Metellus, Posthumius, Lentulus, Senators, the Dictator's Guards, and last Chrisogonus.
Sylla.
The Gods, by me, have seal'd their grand Design,
And Rome enjoys Tranquility at last;
Our Foes are vanquish'd; Faction is no more;
Their usual Vigor animates our Laws.
After the Toils I've dar'd, the Perils past,
In the Republic's Service, Conscript Sires,
In which proud Mithridates I subdu'd,
And firmly fix'd the Bound'ries of her Empire;
I dare to hope your Justice will decree
Such Triumphs to me, and such honour'd Rites,
As you on brave Emilius once bestow'd,
And the two Scipios, 'Vengers of your Wrongs.

Metellus.
Sylla our Foes has vanquish'd, and the Troops
Have Imperator stil'd him in return;
What triumph!—

Posthumius.
Triumph!

Lentulus.

CHORUS.
To him, who for his Country bravely fought,
With many a Wound, who gallant Laurels bought;
Beneath whose Sword did Mithridates bleed,
Let, to the Hero, Triumph be decreed.
Who Rome aveng'd, whose mighty Name
Shall be the justest Task of Fame,
To every distant Kingdom known,
Nor to our Realms confin'd alone.

Sylla.
Fathers, I thank you for this voted Triumph:
Your Favours shall with fresh Incentives fire
My willing Bosom, to serve Rome and you.
But to the settling now the Provinces;
You, Antony, in Syria shall command;
You Claudius rule in Gaul; the Pretorship
Of Sicily we give to you, Posthumius,
Together with your Rank restor'd, and Honours.

Posthumius.
Honours, my Lord!—the Tumults of the Times
Involv'd me in Misfortunes not alone—
And the Proscriptions—But, my Lord, permit
That I refuse the Rule of Sicily!—
Such Glory misbecomes an Exile's Son.

Sylla.
How! dare refuse my Gifts, to look Offence,
And with Reproach my Clemency repay!
O thankless Senators! ungrateful Romans!
Whom it is hard to serve, but harder yet,
Much harder to content.—

Lentulus.
Our Liberty!—

Sylla.
A glorious Liberty our Country boasts;
But you, declining from your Father's Virtues,
Only debate in Factions, to attain
The Grasp of Power, and Dangers deal around.

Posthumius.
Oh! that the Gods permitted we were now!—

Sylla.
AIR.

[The Senators retire.

SCENE VIII.

Sylla, Metellus, Chrisogonus.
Chrisogonus.
To make such Fierceness tractable, my Lord,
You should at once this Insolence subdue.

Sylla.
A Roman is not easily subdu'd.

Chrisogonus.
Does not Posthumius owe his Life to you,
His Wealth, his Honours; shall he dare reject,
And with Contempt, the Gifts you deign to add.

Sylla.
He loves, and is belov'd; and much he fears,
During his Absence, I have strove to gain
The fair Octavia from his longing Heart.

Chrisogonus.
Since all we've done to win her can't avail,
To punish him let's force her to your Will.

Metellus.
How's this, my Lord, has Love subdu'd you then?
That feeble Passion of inglorious Minds.

Sylla.
'Tis true, Metellus, I, to whose Sword has bow'd
A wondring World, by Woman am subdu'd:
I saw Octavia, I forgot my Fame,
My hard-won Vict'ries, and betray'd the Man.

Chrisogonus.
Are you not Master of the World and Rome?
Do you command; Octavia shall be yours.

Sylla.
Her Beauty I respect, and her Misfortunes,
Her Virtue, Honour; and would court her Love
Rather as Sylla, than the proud Dictator.

Chrisogonus.
Shall you, whose boundless Will can Life dispose;
Shall you then for a puling Girl thus grieve,
When, with a Word, yon may command your Wish?

Metellus.
How base such Counsel! what a Traitor this!
(aside.)
By Violence like this the Tarquins fell;
(to Sylla.)
View the Example, tremble at their Fate.

Sylla.
I cannot live without her. Go, Metellus!
Prepare the Order of my Triumph.

Metellus.
AIR.
[Exit Metellus.

SCENE IX.

Chrisogonus.
Now may my Lord perceive who's most his Friend;
You heard Metellus, that Right-arm of yours,
Prove that he serves not you, not you reveres,
But the romantic Liberty of Rome,
Of Rome, which only in her Sylla lives.
Poor in Advice, and timorous of Heart,
He'd to the Phantom sacrifice your Peace;
For me, I honour, serve, love none but you;
I bless the Gods to see your Pow'r fix'd fast,
And, if I can your Happiness increase,
My whole devoted Life I think too poor.
Your Glory's mine, and your Command my Will;
What you ordain, 'tis mine to execute.
I serve but Sylla, and, if you permit,
E'er Day shall run thro' half its wonted Course,
I'll answer that Octavia shall be yours.

Sylla.
Fall at her Feet, implore her to be kind,
Conjure her to attend to Sylla's Flame.

Chrisogonus.
Not such my Scheme; but let me use my own.

Sylla.
Go then.

Chrisogonus.
AIR.
I'll tell the charming Nymph you love,
The Maid whom you adore,
Unless your Passion she approve,
That Sylla is no more.
Should she inflexible remain,
And what I urge oppose,
You shall by Force your Wish obtain,
And dissipate your Woes.
[Exit Chrisogonus.

SCENE X.

Sylla
solus.
O foolish Heart! by feeble Love subdu'd,
Which Glory nor Ambition can content.
Shall this aspiring Soul that aw'd the Earth,
Stoop to the Bondage of a Female Frown?
Shall the Dictator sigh, and crouch beneath
The Feet of one, as cruel as she's fair?
I am not Sylla! I forget myself;
Her Graces and her Charms provoke my Love,
Her cold Resistance gives the Flame new Strength:
Does she prefer Posthumius then to me?
A Man proscrib'd; who owes to me his Life.
Yes! for thro' me Octavia's Father fell.
Ye Gods! what Pangs I feel! I'm not myself:
Love has o'ercome me; I embrace my Fate;
For Love's the Weakness of the noblest Minds.
AIR.