 | Lucius Junius Brutus ; Father of his Country |  |
ACT. IV.
SCE. I.
Tiberius, Vitellius.Tib.
Hark, are we not pursu'd?
Vit.
No; 'tis the tread
Of our own Friends, that follow in the dark.
Tib.
What's now the time?
Vit.
Just dead of night
And 'tis the blackest that e're mask'd a Murder.
Tib.
It likes me better; for I love the Scoul,
The grimmest lowre of Fate on such a deed;
I would have all the Charnel Houses yawn,
The dusty Urns, and Monumental Bones
Remov'd, to make our Massacre a Tomb.
Hark! who was that that holloa'd fire?
Vit.
A Slave,
That snores i'th' Hall, he bellows in his Sleep,
And cries, The Capitol's o' fire.
Tib.
I would it were;
And Tarquin at the Gates: 'twould be a blaze,
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That vows at once the Slaughter of the World:
Down with their Temples, set 'em on a Flame?
What should they do with Houses for the Gods,
Fat Fools, the lazy Magistrates of Rome,
Wise Citizens, the Politick heads o'th' People,
That Preach Rebellion to the Multitude?
Why, let 'em off, and rowl into their Graves:
I long to be at work. See, good Aquilius,
Trebonius too, Servilius and Minutius,
Pomponius hail: nay, now you may unmask,
Brow-beat the Fates, and say they are your Slaves.
Aqu.
What are those Bodyes for?
Tib.
A Sacrifice.
These were two very busie Commonwealth's-men,
That, ere the King was banish'd by the Senate,
First set the Plot on foot in publick Meetings,
That would be holding forth 'Twas possible
That Kings themselves might err, and were but men,
The People were not Beasts for Sacrifice;
Then jogg'd his Brother, this cram'd Statesman here,
The bolder Rogue, whom ev'n with open mouth
I heard once bealch Sedition from a Stall:
Go, bear him to the Priests; he is a Victim
That comes as wish'd for them, the Cooks of Heav'n,
And they will Carve this Brawn of fat Rebellion,
As if he were a Dish the Gods might feed on.
Vin.
(From a Window.)
Oh, the Gods! Oh the Gods! what
will they do with him? O these Priests, Rogues, Cutthroats! A
dish for the Gods, but the Devil's Cooks to dress him.
Tib.
Thus then. The Fecialians have set down
A platform, copy'd from the King's design:
The Pandane or the Romulide, the Roman,
Carmental and Janiculan Ports of Rome,
The Circ, the Capital, and Sublician Bridge
Must all be seiz'd by us that are within;
'Twill not be hard in the Surprise of night
By us, the Consuls Children and their Nephews,
To kill the drowsie Guards, and keep the Holds,
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With all the Royalists that come to joyn us:
Therefore to make his broader Squadrons way,
Tarquinian is design'd to be the Entry
Of his most pompous and Resolv'd Revenge.
Aqu.
The first decreed in this great Execution
Is here set down your Father and Valerius.
Tib.
That's as the King shall please; but for Valerius,
I'll take my self the honor of his Head
And wear it on my Spear. The Senate all
Without exception shall be Sacrific'd:
And those that are the mutinous Heads o'th' People
Whom I have mark'd to be the Soldier's Spoil,
For Plunder must be given, and who so fit
As those notorious limbs, your Commonwealth's men?
Their Daughters to be Ravish'd; and their Sons
Quarter'd like Brutes upon the Common Shambles.
Vit.
Now for the Letters, which the Fecialians
Require us all to Sign, and send to Tarquin,
Who will not else be apt to trust his Heralds
Without Credentials under every hand;
The bus'ness being indeed of vast import,
On which the hazard of his Life and Empire,
As well as all our Fortunes, does depend.
Tib.
It were a break to the whole Enterprise
To make a Scruple in our great affair;
I will sign first: and for my Brother Titus,
Whom his new Wife detains, I have his hand
And Seal to show, as fast and firm as any.
Vin.
O Villany! Villany! What would they do with me, if
they should catch me peeping? knock out my brains at least;
another Dish for the Priests, who would make fine sauce of 'em
for the hanch of a fat Citizen!
Tib.
All hands have here Subscrib'd, and that your hearts
Prove Resolute to what your hands have giv'n,
Behold the Messengers of Heav'n to bind you,
Charms of Religion, sacred Conjurations,
VVith Sounds of Execration, words of horror
Not to disclose or make least signs or show,
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But bear your selves as if it ne'r had been:
Swear by the Gods Celestial and Infernal,
By Pluto, Mother Earth, and by the Furies,
Not to reveal, tho Racks were set before you,
A syllable of what is past and done.
Hark, how the Offer'd Brutes begin to roar!
O that the hearts of all the Traitor Senate,
And heads of that foul Hydra Multitude,
Were frying with their sat upon this Pile,
That we might make an Off'ring worth an Empire,
And Sacrifice Rebellion to the King.
The Scene draws, showing the Sacrifice; One Burning, and another Crucify'd: the Priests coming forward with Goblets in their hands, fill'd with human blood.
1. Pri.
Kneel all you Heroes of this black Design,
Each take his Goblet fill'd with Blood & Wine;
Swear by the Thunderer, swear by Jove,
Swear by the hundred Gods above;
Swear by Dis, by Proserpine,
Swear by the Berecynthian Queen.
2 Pri.
To keep it close till Tarquin comes,
With Trumpets sound and beat of Drums:
But then to Thunder forth the Deed,
That Rome may blush, and Traytors bleed.
Swear all.
All.
We Swear.
1 Pri.
Now drink the Blood,
To make the Conjuration good.
Tib.
Methinks I feel the Slaves exalted blood
Warm at my heart: O that it were the Spirits
Of Rome's best life, drawn from her grizled Fathers!
That were a draught indeed to quench Ambition,
And give new fierceness to the King's Revenge.
Vin.
Oh the Gods! what, burn a man alive! O Canibals, Hell-hounds!
Eat one man, and drink another! Well, I'll to Valerius;
Brutus will not believe me, because his Sons and Nephews are in
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him alive! A whole man roasted! would not an Ox serve the
turn? Priests to do this! Oh you immortal Gods! For my part,
if this be your worship, I renounce you. No; if a man can't go
to Heaven, unless your Priests eat him, and drink him, and roast
him alive; I'll be for the broad way, and the Devil shall have me
at a venture.
[Exit.
Enter Titus.
Tit.
What hoa, Tiberius! give me back my hand.
What have you done? Horrors and midnight Murders!
The Gods, the Gods awake you to repentance,
As they have me. Would'st thou believe me Brother?
Since I deliver'd thee that fatal Scrole,
That Writing to the King, my heart rebell'd
Against it self; my thoughts were up in arms
All in a roar, like Seamen in a Storm,
My Reason and my Faculties were wrack'd
The Mast, the Rudder, and the Tackling gone;
My Body, like the Hull of some lost Vessel,
Beaten and tumbled with my Rowling fears,
Therefore I charge thee give me back my Writing.
Tib.
What means my Brother?
Tit.
O Tiberius, O!
Dark as it seems, I tell thee that the Gods
Look through a Day of Lightning on our City:
The Heav'n's on Fire; and from the flaming Vault
Portentous blood pours like a Torrent down.
There are a hundred Gods in Rome to night,
And ever larger Spirit is abroad,
Monuments empty'd, every Urn is shaken
To fright the State, and put the World in Arms:
Just now I saw three Romans stand amaz'd
Before a Flaming Sword, then dropt down dead,
My self untouch'd: while through the blazing Air
A Fleeting head, like a full riding Moon,
Glanc'd by, and cry'd, Titus, I am Egeria;
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Treason and Tyranny shall not prevail:
Kingdom shall be no more; Egeria sayes it:
And that vast turn Imperial Fate design'd
I saw, O Titus, on th' eternal Loom,
'Tis Ripe, 'tis Perfect, and is doom'd to stand.
1 Pri.
Fumes, fumes; the Fantoms of an ill digestion;
The Gods are as good quiet Gods as may be,
They're fast asleep, and mean not to disturb us,
Unless your Frenzy wake 'em.
Tit.
Peace fury, peace.
May the Gods Doom me to the pains of Hell
If I enjoy'd the beauties that I sav'd:
The horror of my Treason shock'd my joys,
Enervated my purpose, while I lay
Colder than Marble by her Virgin side,
As if I had drunk the blood of Elephants,
Drowsie Mandragora, or the Juice of Hemlock.
1 Pri.
I like him not; I think we had best dispatch him.
Tit.
Nothing but Images of horror round me,
Rome all in blood, the Ravish'd Vestals raving,
The Sacred fire put out; rob'd Mothers shrieks;
Deaf'ning the Gods with clamours for their Babes
That sprawl'd aloft upon the Soldiers Speares
The beard of Age pluck'd off by barbarous hands,
While from his piteous wounds and horrid gashes
The labouring life flow'd faster than the blood.
Enter Valerius, Vinditius, with Guards, who seize all but the Priests, who slip away: Vinditius follows them.
Val.
Horror upon me! what will this night bring forth?
Yes, you immortal Gods, strike, strike the Consul,
Since these are here, the crime will look less horrid
In me, than in his Sons. Titus, Tiberius!
O from this time let me be blind and dumb,
But hast there; Mutius, Fly; call hither Brutus,
Bid him for ever leave the down of rest,
And sleep no more: If Rome were all on Fire,
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He would less wonder than at Titus here.
Tit.
Stop there, O stop that messenger of Fate;
Here, bind, Valerius, bind this Villan's hands,
Tear off my Robes put me upon the Forks,
And lash me like a Slave, till I shall howl
My Soul away; or hang me on a Cross,
Rack me a year within some horrid Dungeon,
So deep, so near the Hells that I must suffer,
That I may groan my Torments to the Damn'd:
I do submit, this Traitor, this curs'd Villain,
To all the Stings of most ingenious horror,
So thou dispatch me ere my Father comes.
But hark! I hear the tread of Fatal Brutus!
By all the Gods, and by the lowest Furies,
I cannot bear his face: away with me;
Or like a Whirlwind I will tear my way
I care not whither.
[Exit with Tiberius.
Val.
Take 'em hence together.
Enter Vinditius with the Priests.
Vin.
Here, here, my Lord, I have unkennel'd two:
Those there are Rascals made of Flesh and blood,
Those are but men, but these are the Gods Rogues.
Val.
Go, good Vinditius, hast and stop the People,
Get 'em together to the Capitol:
Where all the Senate with the Consuls early,
Will see strict Justice done upon the Traytors.
For thee, the Senate shall decree rewards
Great as thy Service.
Vind.
I humbly thank your Lordship.
Why, what, they'l make me a Senator at least,
And then a Consul; O th' Immortal Gods!
My Lord, I go—To have the Rods and Axes carry'd before
me, and a long purple Gown trailing behind my honorable heels:
well, I am made for ever!
[Exit.
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Bru.
O, my Valerius, are these horrors true?
Hast thou, O Gods, this night embowel'd me?
Ransack'd thy Brutus Veins, thy Fellow Consul,
And found two Villains lurking in my blood?
Val.
The blackest Treason that e're darkness brooded,
And who, to hatch these horrors for the World,
Who to seduce the Noble Youth of Rome,
To draw 'em to so damn'd a Conjuration,
To bind 'em too by new invented Oaths,
Religious Forms, and Devilish Sacrifices,
A Sacrament of blood, for which Rome suffer'd
In two the worthiest of her Martyr'd Sons;
Who to do this, but Messengers from Heav'n?
These Holy men that Swore so solemnly
Before the Senate, call'd the Gods to curse 'em,
If they intended ought against the State,
Or harbor'd Treason more than what they utter'd?
Bru.
Now all the Fiends and Furies thank 'em for it.
You Sons of Murder, that get drunk with blood,
Then Stab at Princes, poyson Commonwealths,
Destroy whole Hecatombs of Innocent Souls,
Pile 'em like Bulls and Sheep upon your Altars,
As you would smoke the Gods from out their Dwelling:
You shame of Earth, and Scandal of the Heav'ns,
You deeper Fiends than any of the Furies,
That scorn to whisper Envy, Hate, Sedition:
But with a blast of Priviledge Proclaim it;
Priests that are Instruments design'd to Damn us,
Fit speaking Trumpets for the mouth of Hell.
Hence with 'em, Guards; secure 'em in the Prison
Of Ancus Martius. Read the Packets o're,
I'll bear it as I'm able, read 'em out.
Val.
The sum of the Conspiracy to the King?
It shall begin with both the Consuls deaths;
And then the Senate; every man must bleed,
But those that have ingaged to serve the King.
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By twelve to morrow night, and come your self
In person, if you'll reascend the Throne:
All that have sworn to serve your Majesty
Subscribe themselves by name your faithful Subjects.
Tiberius, Aquilius, Vitellius,
Trebonius, Servilius, Minutius,
Pomponius, and your Fecialian Priests.
Bru.
Ha! my Valerius, is not Titus there?
Val.
He's here, my Lord; a paper by it self.
Titus to the King.
Sir, you need only know my Brother's mind
To judge of me, who am resolv'd to serve you.
What do you think, my Lord?
Bru.
Think my Valerius?
By my heart, I know not:
I'm at a loss of thought; and must acknowledge
The Councils of the Gods are fathomless;
Nay, 'tis the hardest task perhaps of life
To be assur'd of what is Vice or Virtue:
Whether when we raise up Temples to the Gods
We do not then Blaspheme 'em, O, behold me,
Behold the Game that laughing Fortune playes;
Fate, or the will of Heav'n, call't what you please,
That marrs the best designs that Prudence layes,
That brings events about perhaps to mock
At human reach, and sport with expectation.
Consider this, and wonder not at Brutus
If his Philosophy seems at a stand,
If thou behold'st him shed unmanly Tears
To see his Blood, his Children, his own Bowels
Conspire the death of him that gave 'em being.
Val.
What heart, but yours, could bear it without breaking?
Bru.
No, my Valerius, I were a beast indeed
Not to be mov'd with such Prodigious suffering;
Yet after all I justifie the Gods,
And will conclude Ther's Reason supernatural
That guides us through the World with vast discretion,
Altho we have not Souls to comprehend it:
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Produce effects tho of a different nature,
Since then, for Man's Instruction, and the Glory
Of the Immortal Gods, it is Decreed
There must be patterns drawn of fiercest Virtue;
Brutus submits to the eternal Doom.
Val.
May I believe there can be such perfection,
Such a Resolve in Man?
Bru.
First, as I am their Father,
I pardon both of 'em this black Design;
But, as I am Rome's Consul, I abhor 'em,
And cast 'em from my Soul with detestation:
The nearer to my blood, the deeper grain'd
The colour of their fault, and they shall bleed.
Yes, my Valerius, both my Sons shall dye:
Enter Teraminta.
Nay, I will stand unbowel'd by the Altar,
See something dearer to me than my entrails
Display'd before the Gods and Roman People;
The Sacrifice of Justice and Revenge.
Ter.
What Sacrifice, what Victims, Sir, are these
Which you intend? O, you eternal Powers,
How shall I vent my Sorrows! Oh, my Lord,
Yer ere you Seal the death you have design'd,
The death of all that's lovely in the World,
Hear what the witness of his Soul can say,
The only Evidence that can, or dare
Appear for your unhappy guiltless Son;
The Gods command you, Virtue, Truth, and Justice,
Which you with so much rigor have Ador'd,
Beg you would hear the wretched Teraminta.
Bru.
Cease thy laments: tho of the blood of Tarquin,
Yet more, the Wife of my forgotten Son,
Thou shalt be heard.
Ter.
Have you forgot him then?
Have you forgot your self? the Image of you,
The very Picture of your excellence,
The Portraiture of all your manly Virtues,
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The moving Greatness of 'em, all the mercy,
The shedding goodness; not so quite severe,
Yet still most like: and can you then forget him?
Bru.
Will you proceed?
Ter.
My Lord, I will, know then,
After your Son, your Son that loves you more
Than I love him, after our common Titus,
The wealth o'th' World unless you rob'em of it,
Had long endur'd th' Assaults of the Rebellious,
And still kept fix'd to what you had enjoyn'd him;
I, as Fate order'd it, was sent from Tullia,
With my death menac'd, ev'n before his eyes,
Doom'd to be stab'd before him by the Priests,
Unless he yielded not t'oppose the King,
Consider, Sir; Oh make it your own Case;
Just Wedded, just on the expected joys,
Warm for my bed, and rushing to my arms,
So loving too, alas, as we did love:
Granted in hast, in heat, in flame of passion
He knew not what himself, and so Subscrib'd.
But now, Sir, now, my Lord, behold a wonder,
Behold a Miracle to move your Soul!
Tho in my arms, just in the grasps of pleasure,
His noble heart strook with the thoughts of Brutus,
Of what he promis'd you, till then forgot,
Leapt in his brest and dash'd him from enjoyment;
He shriek'd, y' immortal Gods, what have I done!
No Teraminta, let us rather perish,
Divide for ever with whole Seas betwixt us,
Rather than Sin against so good a Father.
Tho he before had barr'd your life and Fortune,
Yet would not trust the Traytors with the safety
Of him he call'd the Image of the Gods.
Val.
O Saint-like Virtue of a Roman Wife!
O Eloquence Divine! now all the arts
Of Womens tongues, the Rhetoric of the Gods
Inspire thy soft and tender Soul to move him.
Ter.
On this he rouz'd: Swore by the Powers Divine,
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Or leave his life amongst 'em: kept his word,
And came to challenge it, but, oh! too late;
For, in the mid'st of all his Piety,
His strong perswasions to a swift repentance,
His vows to lay their horrid Treasons open,
His execration of the barbarous Priests,
How he abhor'd that bloody Sacrament
As much as you, and curs'd the conjuration;
Vinditius came that had before alarm'd
The wife Valerius, who with all the Guards
Found Titus here, believ'd him like the rest,
And seiz'd him too, as guilty of the Treason.
Val.
But, by the Gods, my Soul does now acquit him.
Blest be thy tongue, blest the auspicious Gods
That sent thee, O true pattern of perfection!
To plead his bleeding Cause. There needs no more,
I see his Father's mov'd: Behold a joy,
A watry comfort rising in his eyes,
That sayes, 'Tis more than half a Heav'n to hear thee.
Bru.
Hast, O Valerius, hast and send for Titus.
Ter.
For Titus! Oh, that is a word too distant;
Say, for your Son, for your beloved Son,
The Darling of the World, the joy of Heav'n,
The hope of Earth, your eyes not dearer to you,
Your Soul's best wish, and comfort of your age.
Enter Titus, with Valerius.
Tit.
Ah, Sir! Oh whither shall I run to hide me?
Where shall I lower fall? how shall I lye
More groveling in your View, and howl for mercy?
Yet 'tis some comfort to my wild despair,
Some joy in death that I may kiss your feet,
And swear upon 'em by these streaming tears,
Black as I am with all my guilt upon me,
I never harbor'd ought against your person:
Ev'n in the height of my full fraught distraction,
Your life my Lord, was Sacred; ever dear,
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Bru.
Rise, Titus: rise my Son.
Tit.
Alas, I dare not;
I have not strength to see the Majesty
Which I have brav'd: if thus far I aspire,
If on your knees I hang and vent my groans,
It is too much, too much for thousand lives.
Bru.
I pity thee, my Son, and I forgive thee:
And, that thou may'st believe my mercy true,
I take thee in my arms.
Tit.
O all the Gods!
Bru.
Now rise; I charge thee, on my blessing, rise.
Ter.
Ah! See, Sir, see, against his will behold
He does obey, tho he would choose to kneel
An Age before you; see how he stands and trembles!
Now, by my hopes of mercy, he's so lost
His heart's so full, brimful of tenderness,
The Sence of what you 've done has strook him Speechless:
Nor can he thank you now but with his tears.
Bru.
My dear Valerius, let me now intreat thee
Withdraw a while with gentle Teraminta,
And leave us to our selves.
Ter.
Ah, Sir, I fear you now;
Nor can I leave you with the humble Titus,
Unless you promise me you will not chide,
Nor fall again to anger: Do not, Sir,
Do not upbraid his soft and melting temper
With what is past. Behold he sighs again!
Now by the Gods that hitherto have blest us,
My heart forebodes a storm, I know not why:
But say, my Lord; give me your God-like word
You'l not be cruel, and I'll not trust my heart,
How e're it leaps, and fills me with new horror.
Bru,
I promise thee.
Ter.
Why, then I thank you, Sir;
Ev'n from my Soul I thank you, for this goodness:
The great, good, gracious Gods reward and bless you.
Ah Titus, ah my Soul's eternal treasure,
I fear I leave thee with a hard Usurer;
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[Exit with Val.
Bru.
Well Titus, speak; how is it with thee now?
I would attend awhile this mighty motion,
Wait till the Tempest were quite o'verblown,
That I might take thee in the Calm of Nature,
With all thy gentler Virtues brooding on thee,
So hush'd a stilness, as if all the Gods
Look'd down, and listn'd to what we were saying:
Speak then, and tell me, O my best belov'd,
My Son, my Titus, is all well again?
Tit.
So well, that saying how must make it nothing;
So well, that I could wish to dye this moment,
For so my heart with pow'erful throbs perswades me:
That were indeed to make you reparation,
That were, my Lord, to thank you home, to dye
And that for Titus too would be most happy.
Bru.
How's that, my Son? would death for thee be happy?
Tit.
Most certain, Sir; For in my Grave I scape
All those affronts which I in life must look for,
All those reproaches which the eyes and fingers
And tongues of Rome will daily cast upon me;
From whom, to a Soul so sensible as mine,
Each single Scorn would be far worse than dying:
Besides, I scape the stings of my own Conscience,
Which will for ever Rack me with remembrance,
Haunt me by day, and torture me by night,
Casting my blotted honor in the way
Where e're my melancholy thoughts shall guide me.
Bru.
But is not death a very dreadful thing?
Tit.
Not to a mind resolv'd. No, Sir, to me
It seems as natural as to be born:
Groans, and Convulsions, and discolour'd faces,
Friends weeping round us, blacks, and obsequies,
Make it a dreadful thing; the Pomp of death,
Is far more terrible, than Death it self.
Yes, Sir; I call the Powers of Heav'n to witness,
Titus dares dye, if so you have Decreed;
Nay, he shall dye with joy, to honor Brutus,
To make your Justice famous through the World
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Not but I must confess my weakness too;
Yet it is great thus to resolve against it,
To have the frailty of a mortal man,
But the Security of th' immortal Gods.
Bru.
O Titus, Oh thou absolute young man!
Thou flatt'ring Mirror of thy Father's Image,
Where I behold my self at such advantage!
Thou perfect Glory of the Junian Race!
Let me indear thee once more to my bosom,
Groan an eternal Farewel to thy Soul;
Instead of tears weep blood, if possible,
Blood, the heart blood of Brutus, on his Child,
For thou must dye, my Titus, dye, my Son,
I swear the Gods have Doom'd thee to the grave,
The violated Genius of thy Country
Rears his sad head, and passes Sentence on thee:
This morning Sun, that lights my Sorrows on
To the Tribunal of this horrid vengeance,
Shall never see thee more.
Tit.
Alas, my Lord!
Why are you mov'd thus? why am I worth your sorrow?
Why should the God-like Brutus shake to doom me?
Why all these Trappings for a Traytor's Hearse?
The Gods will have it so.
Bru.
They will, my Titus:
Nor Heav'n, nor Earth can have it otherwise.
Nay, Titus, mark; the deeper that I search,
My harrass'd Soul returns the more confirm'd:
Methinks I see the very hand of Jove
Moving the dreadful wheels of this affair
That whirl thee, like a Machine, to thy Fate.
It seems as if the Gods had preordain'd it
To fix the reeling Spirits of the People,
And settle the loose Liberty of Rome.
'Tis fix'd; O therefore let not Fancy fond thee:
So fix'd thy death, that 'tis not in the power
Of Gods or Men to save thee from the Ax.
Tit.
The Ax! O Heav'n! then must I fall so basely?
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Bru.
If thou deny me this, thou givest me nothing.
Yes, Titus, since the Gods have so Decreed,
That I must lose thee; I will take th' advantage
Of thy important Fate, Cement Rome's flaws,
And heal her wounded Freedom with thy blood:
I will ascend my self the sad Tribunal,
And sit upon my Sons; on thee, my Titus;
Behold thee suffer all the shame of death,
The Lictor's lashes, bleed before People;
Then, with thy hopes and all thy youth upon thee,
See thy head taken by the Common Ax,
Without a groan, without one pittying tear,
If that the Gods can hold me to my purpose,
To make my Justice quite transcend example.
Tit.
Scourg'd like a Bondman! ha! a beaten Slave!
But I deserve it all; yet here I fail:
The Image of this suff'ring quite unmans me;
Nor can I longer stop the gushing tears.
O Sir! O Brutus! must I call you Father,
Yet have no token of your tenderness?
No sign of mercy? what, not bate me that!
Can you resolve, O all th' extremity
Of cruel rigor! to behold me too?
To sit unmov'd, and see me whipt to death?
Where are your bowels now? Is this a Father?
Ah, Sir, why should you make my heart suspect
That all your late compassion was dissembled?
How can I think that you did ever love me?
Bru.
Think that I love thee by my present passion,
By these unmanly tears, these Earthquakes here,
These sighs that twitch the very strings of life:
Think that no other cause on Earth could move me
To tremble thus, to sob, or shed a tear,
Nor shake my solid Virtue from her point
But Titus death: O do not call it shameful,
That thus shall fix the glory of the World.
I own thy suff'rings ought t' unman me thus,
To make me throw my Body on the ground,
60
To tear my hair, to curse the cruel Fates
That force a Father thus to drag his bowels.
Tit.
O rise, thou violated Majesty,
Rise from the Earth; or I shall beg those Fates
Which you would curse, to bolt me to the Center.
I now submit to all your threatn'd vengeance:
Come forth you Executioners of Justice,
Nay all you Lictors, Slaves, and common Hangmen,
Come, strip me bare, unrobe me in his sight,
And lash me till I bleed; whip me like Furies;
And when you'have scourg'd me till I foam and fall,
For want of Spirits groveling in the dust,
Then take my head, and give it his Revenge:
By all the Gods I greedily resign it.
Bru.
No more, Farewel, eternally Farewel:
If there be Gods, they will reserve a room,
A Throne for thee in Heav'n. One last embrace.
What is it makes thy eyes thus swim again?
Tit.
I had forgot: be good to Teraminta
When I am ashes.
Bru.
Leave her to my care.
See her thou must not; for thou canst not bear it.
O for one more, this Pull, this Tug of Heart-strings:
Farewel for ever.
Tit.
O Brutus! O my Father!
Bru.
Canst thou not say Farewel?
Tit,
Farewel for ever.
Bru.
For ever then; But Oh my tears run o're:
Groans choak my words; and I can speak no more.
[Exeunt.
| Lucius Junius Brutus ; Father of his Country | |