 | Horace |  |
SCEN. I.
Old Horace, Young Horace.Old HOR.
From this sad object let our eyes retire,
And the high justice of the gods admire:
For when our Pride exalts it self, they know
The means to lay our high ambition low;
Our greatest pleasures are with sadness mixt,
And blemishes on virtues face are fixt.
I cannot think my poor Camilla free
From blame, yet her I less accuse than thee.
Have I, a Roman, such a Son begot,
Whose honor such a barbarous Act should blot?
Would she had liv'd though with much greater guilt,
Unless some other hand her blood had spilt.
That might have look'd like justice, but in thee,
Unnatural fury and rash cruelty.
HORACE.
Sir, Childrens lives their Fathers wills attend,
And mine, if you but give the word, shall end,
I thought it just, where she her life receiv'd,
She should it lose, but if I misbeliev'd;
If you my zeal judge brutish and prophane,
And that this action did your honor stain,
The hand that made the blot shall it deface,
And free from infamy th'Horatian Race.
Let fond affection no pretences make
Your interest or honor to forsake:
Nor let your wisdom be betray'd by love,
To suffer what it self must disapprove.
116
My Son, it were a rigor too extream,
If for thy fault my self I should condemn.
If my command should thee to Death engage,
Why not to life? who shall support my age
If thou should'st fail? let my concernments clear
This doubt; but stay the Kings approach I hear.
| Horace | |