University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Corvus, Mutius.
Corvus.
Mutius, what means this;—Is it a Truth I hear?—
Does Carthage think of Peace? and will Himilco—
(O perjur'd faithless Man!) disclaim all Compacts?—
Does he refuse my Services for Carthage,
And send the Contract back, broken and void?—
Curse on all Trust—

Mutius.
Why this disjointed Rage?—
'Tis true that Carthage seeks from Rome a Peace;
But hear the Motives—

Corvus.
Motives for a Peace?
I shall run wild!—Can my Designs prevail
By any Motives that conclude a Peace?
Am I not ruin'd?—say, if Rome and Carthage
Shake Hands in friendly Parle, and bend to Peace,
What must become of me?—Naked I stand
The Scorn of one, and Vengeance of the other;
Both will deliver me, to Peace a Victim,
And sign the Bond of Union in my Blood.

Mutius.
Corvus, is Carthage yet no better known?
Dost thou by first Appearance judge Events?
No surer hast thou learn'd to make Distinction
Betwixt Necessity and Choice? Thou hast forgot
Her rooted Hatred, Altar-vow'd Destruction
To Rome and Romans:—Is she not at present
Barren of Men, and destitute of Gold:
She wants to breathe, and to recover Strength;
Then with collected Force pursue Advantage:
More sure we strike beneath the Mask of Friendship,
Than in an open fair Hostility.

Corvus.
But wherefore this Delay?—and why, good Mutius,
Was I not pre-inform'd?—'Tis general News;
No private, no particular Dispatch
Has been addressed to me:—Cou'd I expect,
If Carthage had not shamefully betray'd me,
To be almost the last in Rome to hear it?
What should I think?

Mutius.
Not what your Rage suggests:
Hear all and then determine:—Your Concern
Is with Himilico only, safe with him
The trusted Secret lies; had it been lodg'd
With the whole Senate, Rome had long since known it:
Therefore be calm, Himilco is most just:
Sudden was the Resolve, the Causes many—
The Principal were these—Their Coffers empty;
Allies fall'n off, revolted Mercenaries;
A Battle lately lost; in which, Metellus
Has weaken'd their main Strength, and sunk their Hopes:
These were strong Calls, such as Himilco's Wisdom
Cou'd not but listen to—As to the Notice—
They but resolv'd one Day, and sent the next:—
Now chide your Rashness.

Corvus.
Well, but tell me, Mutius,
Art thou not charg'd upon this sudden Turn,
With some Dispatches from Himilco?

Mutius.
No;
His Hurry, and the Shortness of the Time,
Forbad his Writing; to my Memory
He therefore trusted what he had to send:
His first Injunction was to warn your Care
To further this same Peace—for, much hung on it—
The Expectation of his Hopes and yours,
Many Advantages that ripen slow;
And therefore wait the mellowing Warmth of Time;
He prays you to be constant, and secure
Of him and Carthage—Secret above all,
And not to wear the Colour of a Doubt,
But that all Compacts shall be ratify'd.

Corvus.
I thank thee, Mutius; thou hast giv'n me Ease;
O what a State is Guilt—how wild! how wretched!
When Apprehension can form nought but Fears,
And we distrust Security herself!—
But will Rome grant a Peace?—She must conclude
That Carthage wou'd not sue, but her Condition
Is weak indeed:

Mutius.
Therefore with well-aim'd Choice
Have they determined on a proper Man
To urge their Suit to Rome; one, whose Advice
Will with Affection's Ear be listen'd to;
And by the Senate made the Voice of Rome.

Corvus.
What Man?

Mutius.
I know but one—'tis Regulus.

Corvus.
Damnation! He?—but 'tis impossible—
Thou speak'st to feel my Temper:—Cou'd Himilco
From all Mankind chuse out no other Agent?
(My Fury must have Vent) No Man but him—
But Regulus to send?—And is he coming?

Mutius.
I left him onward, and my swiftest Haste
Cannot have far out-strip'd him.

Corvus.
Shame and Death!
Thou know'st, and so does he, with what Aversion,
What Hatred unappeasable my Soul
Has held that Man: Has he not follow'd me
With jealous Observation my whole Life?
Oppos'd my mounting to the Consul's Chair?
Made me obnoxious to the Eye of Rome,
Sowing the Seeds of Doubt in every Breast?
Consider too—if he returns to Rome,
How are we sure our Practices are secret?
Will not his Penetration mar our Schemes?
His ever-waking Care, his fix'd Attachment
To the romantick Service of his Country,
Will shake our Cause with Danger's strongest Blast;
I say again, 'twas wrong;—'twas unadvised
To send him here; and my divining Soul
Anticipates the dreadful Consequence.

Mutius.
But how cou'd Carthage act in such Distress,
But as sh' has done, or follow different Measures?
As she requires a Peace, 'tis only Regulus
That can secure it—nay, his Interest too,
His natural Fondness to continue here,
Will win him to employ his best Persuasion.

Corvus.
Carthage again is wrong—she knows him not—
His Head, Chimæra-fill'd, with vain Ideas
Of stedfast Honour, and of publick Good,
Turns not one Look to Interest or to Safety;
If he suspects his Country suffers by it,
The smallest Part of Honour or of Land,
No Views can bribe him to a Thought of Peace.

Mutius.
What, not when Life depends on the Success?
Hear the Conditions—e'er he parted thence,
In a full Senate he received an Oath,
Whose Tenor bound him to return to Carthage,
Failing at Rome; and then they told him, Mercy
Should be cut off, and Death shou'd be his Doom:
But such a Death—so dreadful and so horrid,
That the Thought shudders me; the Racks Extension
Is Ease and downy Slumber to the Pains
Which they describ'd to him: “If thou succeed'st not
(Such were their Words) “prepare to meet a Torture
“More exquisite than yet Invention practis'd;
“The Bull of Phalaris, Procrustes' Bed,
“That (lopping or extending) fitted all,
“Will in Idea wrong what thou shalt feel:
“Thy Eye-lids torn away, thou shalt be fix'd
“Against the Glare of the Meridian Sun,
“Till thou shalt weep thy Sight away; the Heat
“Impregnating the Nerves, shall fire the Brain
“And whirl consuming Madness; next, rib'd up
“Naked within a wooden Round, whose Sides
“Are arm'd with Steel inverted, and so thick
“They point sharp Pain almost at ev'ry Pore;
“Then from a Mountain's Height, whose broadspread Base
“Defies the rough Encounter of the Sea,
“Thou shalt be roll'd, in circling Agony,
“Wave-buried”—and to fill up their Description
They to his View presented their dire Engine,
Their Piece-meal Torture.

Corvus.
Gave he then no Answer?

Mutius.
Unmov'd, he view'd it with a careless Eye;
Then smil'd, and said—I'm ready to set forward.

Corvus.
Contempt of Death;—for me, I like it not—
The Consequence is fearful, but too late
To think of a Prevention—What must be done?
My private Fears are strong, nor can I shake
This heavy Apprehension from my Mind:—
But what of Decius?—Say not he is coming;
Good Mutius, say my Rival is at Carthage,
Detain'd the Hostage of his Friend's Return,
And not with Regulus;—

Mutius.
Your Hopes are vain:
Within this half Hour you may see him here.

Corvus.
Why there again—Misfortune every Way
Stares me broad-fac'd; Ruin in ev'ry Shape
Approaches—There my Love is sacrific'd;
Clelia, whom in Despite ev'n of myself,
I love—must then be his—that charming Maid!
Nor does it ought avail that I have feign'd
The Story of his Death, or she believ'd it;—
His curs'd Return will clear all Mysteries,
And bring Despair to me:—But I must hence
To make the best Advantage of thy News:—
I must conclude on something—see where Quintus,
My faithful Slave approaches; him I leave
To thy Occasions—We must work in Haste—
Good Mutius, hie thee to Valerius,
To him unbosom thy Intelligence:
He will conduct thee to him.

Mutius.
To Valerius?

Corvus.
To him, good Mutius;—since thy Absence from us,
He has been gain'd to join in our Designs;
And is my Colleague, if my present Aim
Lights on the Consulship—by him, at large,
Thou shalt be made acquainted with each Step
Already taken to complete our Wish:
Bid him (as we had Yester-Night appointed)
To meet the Tribunes, and excuse my Failing:—
I must confer with Scaurus, whom, thou know'st,
I long-since plac'd, for Purposes of Moment,
In Martia's Family, the Wife of Regulus:—
My All is on the Hazard—Mutius haste—
And after meet me at the City Gate,
E'er Regulus shall enter Rome,—dispatch—
My Fate seems wedded to this Day's Event,
And Ruin or Success attends its Close:
To Corvus' Mind, the Certainty of either
Can feel but light—'tis Doubt creates the Pain.