University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Enter Marcian, and Lucius at a distance.
Marc.
The General of the Oriental Armies,
Was a Commission large as Fate could give:
'Tis gone: why what care I: O Fortune, Fortune!
Thou laughing Empress of this busie World,
Marcian defies thee now—
Why what a thing is a discarded Favourite?
He who but now tho' longing to retire,
Cou'd not for busie Waiters be alone,
Throng'd in his Chamber, haunted to his Closet
With a full Croud, and an Eternal Court;
When once the Favour of his Prince is turn'd,
Shun'd as a Ghost, the clouded Man appears;
And all the gaudy worshippers forsake him;
So fares it now with me where-e'er I come,
As if I were another Cataline.
The Courtiers rise, and no man will sit near me,
As if the Plague were on me all men fly me:
O Lucius! Lucius! if thou leav'st me too,
I think, I swear I think I cou'd not bear it;
But, like a Slave, my Spirit broke with Suffering,
Should on these Coward Knees fall down and beg,
Once to be great again—

Luc.
Forbid it, Heav'n!
That e'er the noble Marcian condescend
To ask of any, but the Immortal Gods;
Nay, I avow, if yet your Spirit dare,
Spight of the Court, you shall be great as Cæsar.

Mar.
No, Lucius, no; the Gods repel that humour.
Yet since we are alone, and must ere long
Leave this bad Court; let us, like Veterans,
Speak out—Thou saist, alas! as great as Cæsar:
But where's his Greatness? Where is his ambition?
If any Sparks of Vertue yet remain
In this poor Figure of the Roman Glory;
I say, if any be, how dim they shine,
Compar'd with what his great Fore-Fathers were?
How should he lighten then, or awe the World,
Whose Soul in Courts is but a Lambent-fire,
And scarce, O Rome! a Glow-worm in the Field:
Soft, Young, Religious, God-like qualities,
For one that should recover the lost Empire:
And wade through Seas of Blood, and walk o'er Mountains
Of slaughter'd Bodies to immortal Honour.

Luc.
Poor heart! he pin'd a-while ago for Love.

Marc.
And for his Mistress vow'd to leave the World;
But some new chance it seems has chang'd his Mind.
A Marriage! but to whom or whence she came,
None knows: but yet a Marriage is proclaim'd,
Pageants prepar'd; the Arches are adorn'd;
The Statues Crown'd; the Hippodrome does groan
Beneath the Burden of the mounted Warriors;
The Theatre is open'd too, where he
And the hot Persian mean to act their Follies.
Gods! Gods! Is this the Image of our Cæsars?
Is this the Model of our Romulus?
O why so poorly have you stampt Rome's glory!
Not Rome's but yours! is this Man fit to bear it?
This waxen Portraicture of Majesty!
Which every warmer Passion does melt down,
And makes him fonder than a Woman's longing!

Luc.
Thus much I know to the eternal shame
Of the Imperial Blood; this upstart Empress,
This fine new Queen is sprung from abject Parents;
Nay, basely born! but that's all one to him,
He likes and loves, and therefore marries her.

Marc.
Shall I not speak? Shall I not tell him of it?
I feel this big-swollen throbbing Roman Spirit
Will burst, unless I utter what I ought.

Enter Pulcheria with a Paper in her hand, and Julia.
Marc.
Pulcheria here! why she's the Scourge of Marcian;
I tremble too when ever she approaches,
And my Heart dances an unusual measure;
Spite of my self I blush and cannot stir
While she is here—What, Lucius, can this mean?
'Tis said Calphurnia had the heart of Cæsar:
Augustus doted on the subtle Livia:
Why then should I not worship that fair Anger?
Oh didst thou mark her when her Fury lightned,
She seem'd all Goddess; nay, her Frowns became her,
There was a Beauty in her very Wildness.
Were I a Man born great as our first Founder,
Sprung from the Blood Divine: But I am cast
Beyond all possibility of Hope.

Pulch.
Come hither, Marcian! read this Paper o'er,
And mark the strange neglect of Theodosius:
He signs what-e'er I bring; perhaps you have heard
To morrow he intends to wed a Maid of Athens,
New-made a Christian, and new-nam'd Eudosia;
VVhom he more dearly prizes than his Empire:
Yet in this Paper he hath set his Hand,
And seal'd it too with th'Imperial Signet,
That she should lose her Head to morrow morning.

Marc.
'Tis not for me to judge; yet this seems strange—

Pulch.
I know he rather would commit a murder
On his own Person, than permit a Vein
Of her to bleed; yet, Marcian, what might follow,
If I were envious of this Virgins Honour,
By his rash passing whatsoever I offer—
VVithout a view—ha, but I had forgot!
Julia, let's haste from this infectious Person—
I had forgot that Marcian was a Traytor;
Yet by the Pow'rs Divine, I swear 'tis pity,
That one so form'd by Nature for all Honour,
All Titles, Greatness, Dignities Imperial,
The noblest Person, and the bravest Courage,
Should not be honest: Julia, is't not pity?—
O Marcian, Marcian! I could weep to think
Vertue should lose it self as thine has done.
Repent, rash Man, if yet 'tis not too late,
And mend thy Errors; so farewel for ever.

[Ex. Pulch. Jul.
Marc.
Farewel for ever! no, Madam, ere I go,
I am resolv'd to speak, and you shall hear me:
Then, if you please, take off this Traytor's Head?
End my Commission and my Life together.

Luc.
Perhaps you'll laugh at what I am going to say;
But by your Life, my Lord, I think 'tis true:
Pulcheria loves this Traytor! Did you mark her?
At first she had forgot your Banishment;
Makes you her Counsellor, and tells her Secrets,
As to a Friend; nay, leaves them in your Hand,
And says, 'tis pity that you are not honest,
With such Description of your Gallantry,
As none but Love could make: Then taking leave,
Through the dark Lashes of her darting Eyes,
Methought she shot her Soul at every Glance;
Still looking back, as if she had a mind
That you should know she left her Heart behind her.

Marc.
Alas! thou dost not know her, nor do I!
Nor can the Wit of all Mankind conceive her;
But let's away. This Paper is of use.

Luc.
I guess your purpose;
He is a Boy, and as a Boy you'll use him.
There is no other way.

Marc.
Yes, if he be not
Quite dead with sleep, for ever lost to Honour,
Marcian with this shall rouze him. O, my Lucius!
Methinks the Ghosts of the great Theodosius,
And thundering Constantine appear before me:
They charge me as a Soldier to chastise him,
To lash him with keen words from lazy Love,
And shew him how they trod the paths of honour.

[Exeunt.