 | Horatius |  |
SCENA V.
Camilla, Curiatius.Cam.
Wilt thou go, my deare Heart? art thou pleas'd with
this fatall honour so farre, as to purchase it
at the expense of all our happiness?
Curiat.
Alas! I see I must, do what I can,
either of grief die, or Horatius hand;
I go to this illustrious imployment
as to my punishment, a thousand times
I curse th'accompt they make of me, I hate
that Valour which doth make Alba esteeme me;
my flame doth pass from despaire even to crime,
it quarrells with and doth assault the Gods:
I wail you, and my self, but I must go.
Cam.
No, no, I know thee better, thou desir'st
that I should pray thee, and that so my power
excuse thee to thy Country. Thou art but
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Alba already hath receiv'd by them
all what thou ow'st her, none then thee hath better
sustain'd this war, none with dead bodies hath
more covered this ground, thy name cannot
grow greater, there is nothing wanting to it;
suffer some other here t'ennoble his.
Curiat.
Should I premit, and see before mine eyes
another head crown'd with immortal lawrels,
which glory doth prepare me, and my Country
reproach this to my vertue, that it might
have triumphed, if I had combated?
and by my Love, my Valour lull'd asleepe,
crown so many exploits with such an infamy?
No, Alba, after th'honour thou hast given me,
thou shalt not fall, nor vanquish but by me;
thou hast committed to my hands thy fate,
I'le give to thee a good accompt of it,
and live without reproach, or dye with shame.
Cam.
I hope thou wilt not so betray my trust.
Curiat.
Before I'm yours, I must be for my Country.
Cam.
But wilt thou for it so deprive thy self
of brother in law, thy sister of her husband,
I of my brothers?
Curiat.
Such is our misfortune:
the choice of Alba and of Rome, takes off
all sweetness from the names (sometime so sweet)
of Brother in law and Sister.
Cam.
Wilt thou also
come to present me with his head, and ask
my hand for guerdon of thy Victory?
Curiat.
In the condition wherein I am,
I must no more think of it; without hope,
to love you, is all that which I can do.
You weepe, my dear Heart.
Cam.
I have cause to weepe,
my cruell Lover doth ordain me death;
and when our Hymen lights his torch, alas!
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a tombe unto me; this unpitiful heart
is obstinate to my destruction,
and sayes it loves me, when it murthers me.
Curiat.
What powerful discourse hath a Mistress when
she's blubbered with tears? and how strong is
a faire eye with such help? how tender is
my heart become at this so sad a sight?
my constancy against it laboureth
with some regret. Assault not with your griefes
my glory, and leave me alone to save
my vertue from your tears, I feele it tottering,
and ill defends it self: the more I am
your Lover, the less am I Curiatius,
already weake in combating 'gainst Amity,
should it o'rcome at once both love and pity?
Begone, love me no more, shed no more tears;
where I oppose th'offence to such strong Armes,
I shall defend me better 'gainst your anger;
and to deserve it, I'le no more looke on you,
revenge your self of an ingratfull person,
and punish an inconstant. Shew you not
your self as sensible of this injury?
I have no more eyes for you. Yet you have
for me! must there be more yet? I renounce
my faith unto you. Rigorous vertue, whose
Victime I am. What! canst not thou resist,
without th'assistance of a crime?
Cam.
Commit
no other crime, and I attest the Gods,
that farre from hating thee, I'le love thee more:
yes, I will cherish thee, false and ingrateful,
and cease t'aspire unto the name of fratricide.
Why am I Romane, or why Art not thou so?
I would prepare thee Laurells with my hand,
I would encourage thee, and not distract thee,
and I would treate thee as I do my brother.
Alas! I was to day blinde in my wishes,
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He returns: what misfortune! if the love
of his wife workes no more upon his soul,
then mine doth upon thine!
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