 | Bonduca : or, The British Heroine |  |
1
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Enter Nennius and another Captain.Nenn.
Suetonius will Repent his Landing here:
Conquest hath already Enrich'd our Soyl;
Our Brittish Fields fatten with Roman slaughter
So much stale Carrion lies in every Ditch,
That the Rank Steams rise from the rotting Heaps,
And Choak up all the Air.
Capt.
They have scarce Men enough
To try the Fortune of another Battle.
Nenn.
And those not worth our Conquest:
A Famin Rages in their pining Troops;
The Mighty Roman Spirit sickens in 'em,
And the poor starv'd Remains of all their Forces,
Can scarce Advance to make a Feeble War.
Capt.
What may not our Victorious Queen expect,
That thus has shook the Daring Power of Rome?
Our mighty Queen! the War-like Bonduca,
That greatly Towers above the humble Sex,
Aspires to more than Man, and Soars to Hero.
Nenn.
Our Hardy Britains ne're will stoop to Rome:
What Courage can oppose our numerous Forces,
Whilst that Great Female Spirit bears against it,
And the Rough Caratach appears himself,
The foremost Mark of Fate, to lead us on
To wonder at his daring?
2
He is indeed,
Our Guard in Peace, and Father of the War.
The True, Blunt, Honest Britain's stampt upon him:
His hard, Old Weather'd Trunk; his Scarrs and Wounds,
And all the Noble Ruins of his Body
Shews him a Soldier, Nurst, and Bred in Danger;
His strength, his Vigour, and Majestick look
Seem to deny his Age, and bear him up
To perfect Youth.
Nenn.
The Hero's finisht in him.
Oh Caratach!
The Everlasting Scourge to wondring Rome,
Whilst thou art here, to lead us on to Conquest,
Britain will never droop; never submit,
Tho' Cæsar Raging for his present loss,
Should start with Fury from the lazy Throne;
Draw all his Distant Troops to one vast Body,
And come himself to head the Crouded War.
But see! the Mighty Caratach appears,
And Bonduca with her Royal Off-spring;
The Partners of her Blood and Spirit.
Capt.
I must retire.
Nenn.
I'le stay.
Enter Caratach, Bonduca, Claudia, Bonvica, Hengo, the Women in an Amazon Dress.
Bond.
Are these the Hero's that Inherit Conquest?
These hardy Romans? O ye Gods of Britain!
Are these the Fortune Makers? these the Julians,
That with the Sun, measure the end of Nature!
Shame, how they Fly! Cæsar's soft Soul Inspires
Their Fainting Limbs; their Fathers got 'em sleeping,
In lazy Lukewarm Fills, and Pleasure Nurst 'em:
Dare they send these, these smooth Fac'd Roman Boys,
To Conquer our well temper'd Manly Britains?
Twice have they felt the Fury of our Arms;
A Woman Beat 'em, Caratach, a weak Woman,
A Woman beat these Romans!
Car.
So it seems!
A Man wou'd blush to talk so.
Bond.
What Caratach, d'ye grieve at my Success?
Car.
No, Bonduca.
'Tis at your bearing it, I grieve: Discretion
And hardy Valour are the Twins of Honour,
And must together make a Conqueror,
Divided, but a Talker: 'Tis a Truth,
3
A Noble Truth, we ought to Crown the Gods for.
But when we meanly would Insult, our Tongues
Forfeit the Honours which our Swords have won.
Nenn.
Is this Insulting, is it mean to say
What Fortune and the Gods allow us?
Car.
No;
So what we say, exceeds not what we do.
What, call the Romans fearful, smooth fac'd Boys?
Does this commend our Conquest? Are they Boys?
Bond.
Forgive me Soldier, 'tis a Woman's Frailty;
I must, and will Reproach 'em: Cæsar sent 'em
To Conquer us, and make us Slaves to Rome:
Now he may send his Vultures too, to feed
And Riot on 'em, here they lye on heaps;
And once more Britain, I pronounce 'em Boys.
Car.
Are Boys the Hero's that must Grace your Triumphs?
Where's then the glory of your Victory?
Why are your Altars Crown'd with Wreaths of Flowers?
Why are your Oxen Lowing by the Priest,
Adorn'd and Gilded for the Pomp of Death?
Is this for frighting a poor Herd of Children?
Is it no more? Shut up your Temples Britains;
Put out your Holy Fires; forbear to tune
Your Hymns of Joy; let all go home and sleep:
For such a Conquest, such a shameful Conquest,
A Candle burns too bright a Sacrifice.
Bond.
Sure, Caratach, thou doat'st upon these Romans.
Sar.
Witness these Wounds, I do: A Roman gave 'em.
I love an Enemy. I was Born a Soldier;
And he that at the head of's Men, defies me,
Bending my Manly Body with his Sword;
I make a Mistress.
Bon.
Were I 'of that Mind too,
My Heart would be wonderfully Engag'd
The next Battle.
[Aside.]
Car.
Ten Years of bitter Nights and heavy Marches,
Have I wrought thro' to try these Noble Romans;
On the hard Ground I've weather'd out ten Winters,
All Chopt with Cold, and stiffning in my Arms,
When Frozen Storms sung through my batter'd Helmet;
And all to try the Romans. Ten times a Night
I've swom the Rivers, when pursuing Rome
Shot at me as I floated; when these Arms
Stemm'd the rough Tide, and broke the Rowling Billows;
And still to try these Romans: 'Tis dishonour,
And follow'd will be worse, to taint 'em thus
4
Bond.
What?
Car.
Run, Bonduca, basely screaming out
Mercy and Quarter from their trembling Lips:
I've seen these Britains that you magnifie,
Fly like a Shadow scowring o're the Plains:
I've seen thee run, couragious Nennius,
And you too, Bonduca, run like Winds,
When that great Chief, the Roman Boy, pursued ye,
Cut thro' your armed Carts, and drove 'em headlong.
Why, I ran too;
But not so fast. Your Jewel had been lost then,
Young Hengo there; for when your Fears out-ran him,
I in the Head of all the Roman Fury
Took him, and girding him in my tough Belt,
Buckl'd this Bud of Britain to my Back,
And plac'd my Shield as a Defence behind him:
Five times in vain I fought to bear him off;
We had perish'd, had not their gallant General
Cry'd like a Roman, like a noble Roman,
Go Britain, bear thy Lion's Whelp off safely;
Thy manly Sword has ransom'd thee; grow strong,
And let me meet thee once again in Arms.
Then if thou standst thou'rt mine; I took his Offer,
And here I am to honour him.
Bond.
Well then,
Let 'em be Boys or Hero's, still we have conquer'd;
And I am proud to think the richest Blood
Of all the Martial World, now only serves
To dung my Fields.
Car.
And I am proud on't too:
But where we have found Virtue, tho' in those
That came to make us Slaves, let's cherish it:
There's not a Blow we gave, since Julius landed,
That was of Strength or Worth; but like Records,
They Pile to After-Ages. The Romans are
Our Registers for noble Deeds of Honour;
And shall we burn their Mentions with Upbraidings?
Bond.
My Fortune wound my Female Soul too high,
And lifted me above my self; but thou
Hast kindly work'd down all my Towring Thoughts:
Shall we have Peace? For now I love these Romans.
Car.
Peace! Rather rail on, than think of Peace.
Nenn.
Why did we sight? Is'nt Peace the end of War?
Car.
Not where the Cause implies a General Conquest.
Had we a Difference with some petty Isle,
Or with some peevish Neighbour for our Land-Marks,
5
But where we grapple for the Ground we live on,
The Liberty we hold as dear as Life;
And with these Swords, that know no end of Battle,
That where they march, but measure out more Ground
To add to Rome, and here i'th' Bowels of us:
It must not be, whilst there's an Eagle wav'd
In British Air, we'll never think of Peace.
Bond.
O Caratach!
As thou hast nobly spoken shall be done.
The Romans shall have worthy Wars to thee:
I give in Charge this little Royal Graft,
The tender Care and future Price of Britain:
With thee he's safe, as in his Mother's Arms.
Car.
And little Sir, when your young Bones grow stiffer,
And when I see you able in a Morning
To beat a dozen Boys, and then to Breakfast,
I'll tie ye to a Sword.
Heng.
And what then, Unckle?
Car.
Then you must kill, Sir, the next valiant Roman
That calls you Knave.
Heng.
And must I kill but one?
Car.
A Hundred, Boy, I hope.
Heng.
I hope Five Hundred.
Car.
That's a Noble Boy. Come, Madam,
Let's to our several Charges. Is Venutius
Return'd from viewing the Roman Camp?
Bond.
Where's your Venutius, Girl? You best can tell.
Is he come back, my Claudia?
Car.
Nay, blush not Lady; for with Pride I speak it.
A braver Britain never shone in Armour:
Nature has polish'd every part so smoothly,
As if she only meant him for a Lover,
But when (as I have oft with Pleasure seen him)
He calls up all the Man to rush to War,
Then Fury sparkles from Majestick Beauty;
The Soldier kindles, and I lose the Lover,
Only to wonder at the Godlike Hero.
Clau.
You've nobly recompenc'd his Service,
Greatly return'd that Praise, that loud as Fame
Has often sounded of the Mighty Caratach.
Bond.
Venutius has deserv'd your Love, my Daughter,
And here he comes to claim it.
Enter Venutius.
Venutius, welcome: Have ye view'd the Romans?
Ven.
Yes; they are few, and meanly sculk'd behind
Their labour'd Trenches.
6
Where thy Courage drove 'em.
Go my Venutius to thy Mistress Arms;
Thus I reward thy Toil, and crown thy Wishes.
Ven.
Thus then I'll thank ye:
By the mighty Joys that fill my Soul,
Thou'rt dearer, dearer to me,
Than all the Triumphs that the War cou'd promise.
Bond.
To morrow let us push the Conquest home,
And drive th'unwilling Romans from our Isle,
And then we'll solemnize your Loves in Peace;
The Holy Priest shall join your Souls for ever.
Ven.
Speak that agen! I'm lost in Extasie!
The Trumpet that allarm'd my Soul to War
Ne'er rais'd me half so high.
Car.
Spoke like a Soldier.
I've always been thy Leader, but to morrow
I'll follow thee; Love leads us on to Conquest.
Methinks I see the Toils of Battle cease,
And weary Britain husht once more in Peace,
And thee presented to thy Claudia's Arms,
Free from the Midnight Terror of Allarms:
For who, what Roman can our Rage oppose,
When Love and Courage shoot us on our Foes?
[Exeunt Car. Bond. Bonvica, Hengo: manet Ven. & Claudia.
Ven.
Now I am truly happy. Oh, my Claudia!
With this Reward, the great Reward of Beauty,
The batter'd Soldier crowns his glorious Labours,
And softens all the rugged Toils of Danger.
To morrow! Oh! Wou't thou not joy, my Claudia,
When from a bloody Field of slaughter'd Romans,
Thy weary Soldier comes with full Desire,
And brings thee Love and Conquest?
Clau.
Yes, and with these soft Arms I'll hold you fast,
Till Honour calls you from me:
And when fresh Dangers court you to new Wars,
When your Soul springs to follow dreadful Glory,
Like a true Britain, like Bonduca's Daughter,
I'll dress my Hero, bring his Shining Armour;
Admire my Soldier, while with Pride I view
The graceful Horrors graven on his Shield,
And Terror sitting on his haughty Crest;
Then praise, embrace, and urge him to the War,
And then—
Ven.
And then,
When the rough bus'ness of the day is o're,
When all my glittering Arms are red with Slaughter,
And shouting Britains bring me home in Triumph,
7
To lull my Cares, and soften 'em to Rest;
To make me lose the Hero in the Lover,
And all the Soldier melt to Love and Peace.
Clau.
Yes, and I'll torture you a thousand ways,
With thousand thousand Questions of the War;
With trembling pleasure I will hear it all,
Heal every Wound you name with balmy Love,
Clasp my Victorious Hero in my Arms,
Praise him in every little tender way,
And bless kind Heaven for all the danger past.
Ven.
Ye Gods! Is there such Excellence in Woman?
By all the Promises of glorious Love,
I'm so impatient till thou art all my own,
I dare not lose a moment, though with thee;
New dawning Glory breaks upon my Soul,
And all my Spirits up to rush to Battle,
To launch with Fury on the wondring Romans,
Drive 'em to Fate, then big with Love and Conquest
Fly to the Altar with a Bridegroom's Joy,
Perform the hasty Rites of Holy Marriage,
And seize the noble Prize of all my Labours.
Claud.
Then sure I shall be free from odious Love.
Ven.
What means my Blessing?
Claud.
Oh my Venutius, that grim Royal Pict,
That joins his Troops with us against the Romans,
That we've so often doubted for a Traitor;
That Fiend still troubles all my softer hours,
And haunts me with his sawcy Brutal Passion.
Ven.
Gods! what, that finish'd piece of perfect Monster?
Durst he blaspheme the Sacred Name of Love?
[Comes peeps.
I pity him; use him, my Claudia, use him
For thy Diversion; he's beneath thy Scorn:
'Tis but a Day, and then with envious Eyes
He'll see me triumph in my Claudia's Beauty,
And never dare to own his Passion more.
Farewel my Love, and tho' 'tis Death to part,
Yet for a while my Glory calls me from thee.
Claud.
And will you go so soon? One moment longer.
Ven.
Oh, I cou'd stay an Age, and still complain
Of leaving thee too soon. But my Charge waits me,
And I must see my Troops prepar'd for Battel.
Farewel: We part to meet in Peace to join
For ever; join, and give an Age to Love.
[Exit Venutius.
Enter Comes and meets Claudia as she's going out.
Com.
What! my brightest Amazon in Arms agen?
The Toil and Danger of the War is o're.
8
Have I not cause to wear a stronger Guard,
When a worse Foe comes on?
Com.
The Romans sure will tempt your Rage no more.
Claud.
But I fear thou wilt.
Com.
Ha! then am I
The Foe you meant? I come, my Beauteous Claudia,
To talk of Friendly things, of Peace and Love.
Claud.
O think agen, Sir; for they both disown thee;
There is no Peace and Love, where thou art present,
To mix thy self and spoil, the God-like Compound.
Com.
Why dost thou dart at me those scornful Beams
Of Angry Beauty? Oh! Look milder on me.
'Twas Love that made me first a Foe to Rome;
To Fight and Conquer with my Beauteous Claudia.
'Tis o're, and that great Love that first began 'em,
Shou'd Crown our Labours, sweeten all our Toils;
Spring like our Souls in the first heat of Battle;
And shoot with fury to each others Arms;
To Clasp and Grapple midst Triumphant Joys.
Claud.
Ha, this to me, the Virgin Pride of all Britain?
Shall I be treated like a Common Prostitute?
Am I thought mean enough for Beastly Passion,
The Recreation of his Ranker Hours?
Com.
Forgive my hasty Zeal; I love with Honour.
The Sacred Innocence that atton'd the Gods,
Before we drew our Swords against the Romans,
Burnt not a purer Flame.
Claud.
Urge me no more: Thou talk of sacred Love!
Hast thou a Nook in all that hudled Frame,
Fit for so soft a Guest? It cannot be.
Fly from my sight, thou bungl'd Botch of Nature;
Thou Snuff of Life, and Ruins of a Man.
Com.
Once I was worthy your Imperious Beauty:
Curse o'that British Boy, that charm'd you from me.
Am I despis'd for him?
Claud.
Rather Curse Nature, thou blaspheming Fiend,
That ne're reform'd thy Dross: Curse thy own Fate,
That warm'd that uncocted Lump to Life,
Half finisht into Man. Art thou still here?
Be gone: I would not tell thee—
Com.
More you cannot;
The Proudest of your Sex, tho' scorn'd and loath'd,
Cou'd not have vented more true Womans spite
Than you, for being Lov'd; Lov'd by a Prince;
And since you urge me thus, a Prince above you.
Claud.
Above me!
This Insolence has given me leave to tell thee,
9
Have ye forgot the time, when like a Slave,
Thou wentst prepar'd to gorge thy rank Desire,
Where a lewd Strumpet kept her Midnight Court?
Dost thou remember, how she loath'd thy Person?
E'en she, a Prostitute to all beside,
Started at this Appearance: I must laugh,
And tell thee what the publick Voice confirms,
That thou didst force, force ev'n that common Jilt,
And in the very Stews commit a Rape;
And dar'st thou own thy monstrous Love to me,
Scorn'd by a Whore that every Swain has sullied?
Com.
Gods! Can I bear all this, and still desire?
All the rank Malice of your haughty Sex
Is surely lodg'd in thee, to make me hate thee
More than I ever lov'd; to make thy Soul
Ugly and loathsom as that ghastly Terror
Your Impious Fancy drew for me. Go then,
Go to your Lovers Arms, and wanton there:
I'll court Disdain no more, no longer feast
My hungry Eyes on that proud Beauty.
Claud.
Then I'm your Friend agen; and now let's part,
Part in this very pleasing careless Mood,
And ne're from this kind Resolution move:
I will forget my Scorn, and you your Love.
[Exit Claudia, manet Comus solus.
Com.
And I my Love? Gods! Can she think I lov'd her?
I'm unacquainted with that Boyish Passion;
My Soul's inspir'd with a nobler Flame,
A mighty Governing Lust shoots through my Veins;
I'll fawn no more, but force her to the Bliss,
And glut at once my Vengeance and Desire:
I'll ravish her; my old experienc'd way:
And generally too, 'tis the Consequence
Of all my awkard Wooing; the Thought alarms me.
Ye Gods! ye Gods! How it wou'd fire my Soul,
To clasp this lovely body in my Arms!
Whilst scorning to be pleas'd, she'd curse the Pleasure;
Till with a sudden Rapture seiz'd she'd melt away,
And springing give a Loose to lusty Joy.
[Exit.
The End of the First Act.
| Bonduca : or, The British Heroine | |