University of Virginia Library

ACTUS IIII.

SCENA I.

The old Horatius, Camilla.
Old Horat.
Ne'r speak unto me in the favour of
an infamous person, let him fly me as
the Brothers of his wife; to save a blood
that he esteemes so precious, he hath done
yet nothing, if he keep not from my sight.
Sabina may give order for't, or I
attest the soveraigne power of all the Gods.—

Cam.
Oh, father, take a sweeter sentiment,
you shall see Rome herself to use him otherwise,
and by what fate soe'r she be oppres'd,
t'excuse a vertue so o'r-charg'd with number.

Old Horat.
Romes Judgement herein makes but little for me,
Camilla, I'm a father, and I have
my rights apart. I am not ignorant
how the true vertue acts: there is no triumph
where number doth oppress, her masculine vigour
alwaies in the same point falls underneath
the force, but yeilds not to it. Peace, here comes
Valerius. What is his business with us?

SCANA II.

The old Horace, Valerius, Camilla.
Valerius.
Sent by the King to consolate a father,
and to express for him—

Old Horat.
Take you no care on't,
it is a comfort which I have no need of;
I rather would behold them dead, then covered
with infamy, that come to take me from
an enemies hand; they dy'd both for their Country
like men of honour, 'tis sufficient.

Val.
But, Sir, the other is a rarer blessing,
of all the three he ought to hold with you
the chiefest place.

Old Horat.
Would he have made the name
of the Horatii perish with himself!

Val.
You onely treat him ill after the deed
that he hath done.

Old Horat.
His fault belongs to me
onely to punish.

Val.
What fault can you finde
in his good conduct?

Old Horat.
What brave vertue can you
finde in his flight?

Val.
His flight is glorious
on this ocasion.

Old Horat.
You redouble, Sir,
my shame and my confusion: sure th'example
is rare, and worthy memory, to finde
in flight a way to glory.

Val.
What confusion,
and what shame is't to you to have brought forth
a Son that doth conserve us all, that maketh
Rome triumph, and gaineth an Empire to her?

Old Horat.
What preservation, triumph, and what Empire,
when Alba rangeth underneath her lawes
our destiny!

Val.
What speak you here of Alba,
and of her Victory? you know not yet
halfe of the story.

Old Horat.
What? is not the combat
finished by his flight?

Val.
Alba Thought so
at first, but she perceived soon, that he
fled like a man, that knew well how to manage
Romes best advantage.

Old Horat.
What! triumphs Rome then?

Val.
Be pleas'd to understand; the valour of
this son, whom wrongfully you do condemn,
resting alone 'gainst three, (but in this passage,
all the three being wounded, and he free)
too weake for all, too strong for either of them,
he thought it fit a little to retire him;
he fled to fight the better; this quick policie
fitly divides the brothers, each of them
follows him with a pace more or less eager,
as he doth finde himself more or less hurt:
their heat was equal to pursue his flight,
but their unequal blows did separate
their pursuite: when Horatius saw them thus
scattered one from the other, he return'd,
and thought them more then halfe conquer'd already:
he did expect the first, and 'twas your son in law,
who all enraged that he should stay for him,
in vain did make a great heart to appear,
assaulting him, the blood that he had lost
weakened his strength: Alba began to fear
a change of fortune, she cry'd to the second
that he should ayd his Brother; he made hast,
and spent himself in vain attemps for her,
but found his Brother dead when he came up.

Cam.
Alas!

Val.
Quite out of breath, he tooke his brothers place,
and soon redoubled Horatius Victory;
his courage without strength was a weak prop:
desirous to revenge his brothers death,
he fell down by him. The air did resound
with cryes, which all sent unto heaven upon it;
Alba breath'd sorrow, and the Romans joy.
As our brave Hero saw his enterprise
neer at an end, he would a little vaunt
as well as conquer: I am come (said he)
from sacrificing two unto the Ghosts
of my dead brothers: Rome shall have the last
of my three adversaries, it is unto
her int'rests that I offer him: This said,
he presently flew at him; between them
the Victory remain'd not long time doubtful;
the Alban pierc'd with wounds, could hardly stand,
and as a Victime brought before the Altar,
he seemed to present his yeelding throat
unto the deadly stroak; so he receiv'd it.
His death establisheth the power of Rome.

Old Horat.
O my Son! O my joy! O honour of
my dayes! O unexpected succour of
a tottering State! O vertue worthy Rome,
and blood worthy Horatius! Thou support
of thy deer Country, glory of thy race!
When can I smother in my close imbracements
the error wherewith I form'd such false sent'ments?
When may my love bath thy victorious front
with tears of joy?

Val.
Sir, presently you may
Use your caresses, the King goes to send him
unto you, and deferres untill to morrow
the pompous sacrifice which we owe to the gods
for such a benefit; onely to day
we pay them but with songs of Victory,
and ordinary vows. The King doth lead him
unto the Temple, whilst he sendeth mee
to do this office to you both of joy
and grief together: But this is not yet
enough for him, he will come here himself,
perhaps to day; this noble action
so highly toucheth him, that he will thank you
with his own mouth, for giving your brave sons
to the good of his State.

Old Horat.
Such high acknowledgments
have too much glory for me; I account
my self already too much paid by yours
for the ones service, and the others blood.

Val.
The King can't do an honour (Sir) by halfs;
and his Crown snatched from the enemies hands,
makes him esteem the honour he intends you
beneath the Father's merit, and the Son's.
I'll go to let him know what noble sentiments
Vertue inspires into you, and what ardour
you expresse for his service.
Exit Valerius.

Old Horat.
I shall be very redeonble to you
for that good office.

SCENA III.

The old Horatius, Camilla.
Old Horat.
Daughter, this is no fit time to shed tears:
it is not handsome when we see such honours:
We mourn unjustly for domestick losses,
when publick Victories proceed from thence:
Rome triumphs over Alba, and that is
enough for us; all our ills at this rate
ought to be sweet unto us; in the death
of a dear Lover, you lose but a man,
whose losse is easie to repair in Rome:
after this Victory, there is no Roman
but will be proud to give his hand to you.
I must go to Sabina with this news;
this stroak (without doubt) will be grievous to her,
her Brothers slain all by her Husbands hand,
will give her juster tears and plaints then you:
But I hope easily to dissipate
the violence thereof, and that a little
discretion assisting her great courage,
will make the generous love she owes unto
the Conqueror, reign on so noble heart:
In the mean time, smother this unbecoming
and poor low passion. If he comes, receive him,
and shew no weaknesse; make your self appear
to be his Sister, and that in one womb
Heaven form'd you both of the same blood and substance.

SCENA IV.

Camilla
sola.
Yes, I will make appear plainly unto him,
that a true Love can brave the Destinies,
and cannot take Lawes from those cruell Tyrants,
whom an injurious Star gives us for Parents.
Thou blam'st my grief, thou dar'st to name it base,
so much the more I lov't (unpitifull Father)
as the more it offends thee: by a just
indeavour I will make it equall to
the rigours of my fortune. Was there ever
seen any yet, whose rude traverses took
in so short time so many severall faces,
that was so often sweet, so often cruel,
and gave so many various stroaks before
the mortall stroak! Was ever seen a soul
more seis'd with joy and grief, with hope, and fear;
subjected (as a slave) to more events,
and made the pitious pastime of more changes!
An Oracle assures me, a Dream frights me,
Battel dismayes me, and Peace pleaseth me:
my Marriage is prepar'd, and in a moment
my Lover's chosen forth to fight my Brother.
The two Camps in a mutiny, disavow'd
such an unjust choice, they brake off the partie;
the Gods renew it; Rome seems vanquished,
and only of three Albans, Curiatius
hath not at all in my blood stain'd his hands.
Gods! did I not then feel too little grief
for Rome's misfortune, and two Brothers death?
Flatter'd I not my self too much, when I
thought I might love him yet without a crime,
and nourish some hope? His death scourgeth me
enough for that, and the inhumane manner
wherewith my terrified heart receiv'd
the news thereof: his Rival told it me,
and in my presence making the recital
of so sad a successe, upon his front
he wore an open joy; which griev'd my heart,
and made the publick good lesse then my losse:
So building in the air upon anothers
misfortune, he triumphed over him
like to my Brother. But this is not all,
'tis nothing unto that which doth remain;
In such a fatall stroak they ask my joy,
I must applaud the Conqueror's exploits,
and kisse a hand that pierceth my sad heart:
in so great and so just a cause of plaints
it is a shame to weep, a crime to sigh.
Their bruitish vertue would, that (in this case)
I should esteem me happy; so with them,
one must be barbarous to be generous.
But we'll degenerate (my Heart) from such
a vertuous Father; let us be unworthy
of such a generous Brother: 'Tis a glory
to passe for abject spirits, when bruitishnesse
is held the highest Vertue. My just Griefs,
break forth: to what end should I keep you in?
When one hath lost all, what's more to be fear'd?
Have no respect for this inhumane Conqueror:
Far from avoyding of him, come athwart him,
trouble his Victorie, provoke his anger,
and take (if possible) pleasure to displease him.
He comes, prepare we to shew constantly
what a kind Mistresse owes unto the death
of him she loves.

SCENA V.

Horatius, Camilla, Proculus, and two other Souldiers, carrying each of them a sword of the Curiatii.
Horat.
Sister, behold the arm that hath reveng'd
our two brave brothers; that hath broke the course
of our contrary Destinies, that makes us
Masters of Alba; lastly, see the arm
that makes to day the fortune of two States:
Behold these marks of honour, these fair testimonies
of glory, and give what thou ought'st unto
the happinesse of my Victory.

Cam.
Receive then
my tears; 'tis that which I do owe unto it.

Horat.
Rome will see none after such high exploits;
and our two brothers slain in the misfortune
of arms, are paid enough with blood, there needs
no tears to mingle with it. When the losse
is reveng'd, 'tis recovered.

Cam.
Since they are
satisfi'd by the blood that's shed, I'll cease
to mourn more for them, and forget their death,
which your hand hath reveng'd. But who shall now
revenge my Lovers, to make me forget
his losse too?

Horat.
What saist thou, unfortunate!

Cam.
O my dear Curiatius!

Horat.
Infinite boldnesse
of an unworthy Sister! Must the name of
a publick enemy, whom I have conquered,
be in thy mouth, and his love in thy heart?
Thy criminall heat aspireth to revenge,
thy mouth demands it, and thy heart longs for it;
follow thy passion lesse, stint thy desires,
make me not blush to understand thy sighs;
thy flames henceforth ought to be smothered,
banish them from thy soule, and think upon
my trophies, let them ever be hereafter
thy onely entertainement.

Cam.
Give me then
a heart like thine, barbarian. If thou wouldst
have me to speak my thoughts, restore unto me
my Curiatius, or leave my flame
to act; my joy and griefs depend upon
his fortune: I ador'd him living, and
I mourne him dead. Seeke not thy sister where
thou left'st her; thou shalt see no more in me
but an offended Love, which like a furie
fix'd to thy steps, incessantly shall haunt thee,
and still reproach thee with his death. Inhumane,
blood thirsty Tiger, that forbid'st me teares,
that wouldst that in his death I should finde charmes,
and that extolling thy exploits to heaven,
I should my self kill him a second time!
May such misfortunes waite upon thy life,
that thou fall'st to the point to beare me envie,
and sullie soone by some unworthy act
that glory deare to thy brutalitie!

Horat.
O heaven! who ever saw so high a madness?
Believ'st thou then that I should be insensible
of such an outrage, and that I should suffer
this foule dishonour in my blood! Love, love
that death which makes our happinesse; but preferre
that which thy birth owes to the interests
of Rome, before the memory of a man.

Cam.
Rome, th'only object of my sad resentment!
Rome, unto whom thine arm hath sacrific'd
my Lover! Rome, that gave thee birth, and whom
thou dost adore! Lastly, Rome that I hate
because she honours thee! May all her neighbours
conspire together in a league against her,
and sap her yet unsettled foundations:
and if this of all Italie be not
sufficient, let the East joyn with the West
against her; let a thousand severall Nations
(from the ends of the Universe) passe the seas
and mountains to destroy her; let her self
orethrow her walls upon her self, and with
her own hands tear her bowels; let the anger
of heaven (by my prayers kindled) make a deluge
of fire to rain upon her; may mine eyes
see those brave thunderbolts to fall upon her,
her houses ashes, and her laurels dust;
see the last Roman breathing his last gasp,
and I the cause of this, to die with pleasure.

Horat.
Putting his hand to his sword, and following his Sister, who flies him.
It is too much, my patience gives place
to reason. Go thy wayes to hell, and joyn
thy self there with thy Curiatius.

Cam.
Wounded behind the Stage.
O Traitor!

Horat.
Coming again upon the Stage.
Such sudden punishment let every one
receive, that dares lament a Roman enemy.

SCENA VI.

Horatius, Proculus.
Proc.
What have you done?

Horat.
I think, an act of justice.
Such a fault such a punishment requires.

Proc.
You should have us'd her with lesse rigour, though.

Horat.
Tell me not that she is my blood, my sister;
my father for his daughter can no more
acknowledg her: Who is so bold to curse
his Country, doth renounce his family:
Those names of love are then no more allow'd him,
he makes his deerest friends his enemies;
the blood it self arms them in hatred of
his crime, the speediest vengeance is the best for't.
This impious wish, though forcelesse, is a monster
that must be smothered in the birth.

SCENA VII.

Horatius, Sabina, Proculus.
Sab.
Horatius,
why stayeth thy illustrious anger here?
come, see thy Sister in thy Fathers arms
render her spirit: sacrifice unto
the Country of the vertuous Horatii
the sad remains of Curiatius blood:
So prodigall of thy own, spare not theirs,
joyn thy Wife to thy Sister, separate not
Sabina and Camilla; our crimes are
alike, as are our miseries: I sigh
as well as shee, and do deplore my Brothers;
more guilty in this point 'gainst thy hard lawes,
in that she wept but one, and I weep three,
and that after her punishment my fault
continues.

Horat.
Dry thy tears, or hide them from
my sight, Sabina, make thee worthy of
my chast half, and endeavour not t'oppresse me
with an unworthie pitie: if the power
of a chaste flame leaveth unto us both
but one thought, and one soul, it is thy part
to raise thy sentiments to mine, not mine
to descend to the shame and poverty
of thine; I love thee, and I know the grief
that presseth thee; embrace my noble vertue
to overcome thy weaknesse, share my glory
in stead of sullying it, put it on rather
then take it from me: And thou of my honour
so mortall enemy, how much better should I
have pleased thee, if fall'n in infamy?
Be more a Wife then Sister, and conforming
thy self to me, make thee of my example
a law immutable.

Sab.
Seek more perfect souls
to imitate thee. I impute not to thee
my losses: I have the same sentiments
I ought to have of them, and have a quarrell
to fortune rather then unto thy duty.
But withall, I renounce the Roman vertue,
if to possesse it I must be inhumane,
and cannot see in me the Conquerours Wife,
without discerning there the Sister of
the Conquered. Let us participate
in publick of the publick Victories;
let us at home weep our domestick evils,
and not regard the common happinesse
when we behold our private miseries.
Why (cruel) dost thou covet to act otherwise?
Entring, leave here thy Laurels at the door,
mingle thy tears with mine. What? doth not this
effeminate discourse arm thy high vertue
against my sorrowfull dayes? Doth not my crime
(redoubled) move thy choler? O how happie
art thou, Camilla! She could soon displease thee,
and receive from thee what she did pretend:
she could below recover all her losse.
Dear Husband, of the torment that doth presse me
dear author, if thy anger ceases, hearken
to pitie; exercise the one or th'other
to punish my infirmitie, or end
my griefs. I ask death either for a favour,
or for a punishment (I care not whether.)
Let her be an effect of Love, or Justice,
it matters not; all her darts shall seem sweet
unto me, if I see them to come from
a Husbands hand.

Horat.
What an injustice is it
unto the Gods, to give up unto women
so great an Empire on the fairest souls,
and to be pleas'd to see such feeble Conquerours
to reigne so strongly o'r the noblest hearts?
My Vertue, unto what point dost thou come
to be reduc'd? Nothing can better warrant it
then fight. Adieu, follow me not, or hold
thy sighs.
—Exit Horatius.

Sab.
alone.
O Anger! Pitie! deaf to my desires!
You care not for my crime, and my grief tires you;
and I obtain from you nor punishment
nor favour. Well, once more by tears I'll try,
and if that fail, then by my self I'll die.