Regulus :: :: University of Virginia Library

Curse on his steddy Pride! his Stoic Zeal,
That heats the Patriot Brain to virtuous Madness;
While every Impulse Nature's Instinct urges,
Is treated as a distant, spurious Passion,
Foreign to Man—who will himself, amend
The great Creator's Work, and tell the Gods,
They sent it here imperfect—Furies seize him!—

But to our own Concern—for now we stand
Upon a Column, whose Time-eaten Base
Hardly supports its burthen'd Capital,
That tott'ring overhangs and nods to Ruin.

Mutius.
'Tis said, th'Ambassadors will streight return,
And with them Regulus; who has requested
But two short Hours to take a last Farewel
Of his dear Wife, his Children, and his Friends;
To settle all Concerns on this Side Life—
Then turn from Rome, and from the World together.

Corvus.

Therefore, I tell thee, I must change my Part:
War must be now my Cry—devoted Regulus
Must be the Subject of each Breath of Praise;

Higher than all Example must we raise him,
And rob the Gods of Attributes to grace him:—

But my first Care is to apprise Himilco
Of what is done, and what I yet intend:
To send by the Ambassadors is slow,
It speaks not Warmth and Earnestness enough;
It should take Flight upon a Tempest's Wings,
And reach the Gates of Carthage in an Hour:—
Therefore, good Mutius, thy known Diligence,
Will even to Expedition be a Spur,
And whip her to the Goal—Be thine this Care—
Fortune and Honours shall repay your Toil:—
Quintus, my faithful Slave shall wait upon you,
Ready for all Employment—see; he's here;

SCENE II.

Corvus
, Mutius, Quintus.
Thy Eye speaks Haste:—What Tidings bring'st thou, Quintus?

Quintus.
Such as must give Surprize to every Roman—
The Wife of Regulus has mov'd the Senate
With Tears of virtuous Sorrow; at her Instance,
They have a solemn Deputation sent;
Imploring him to stay in Terms so powerful,
That they have bent the Firmness of his Nature:—
And now, 'tis said, he will continue here.

Corvus.
By Hell 'tis false:—Say, Mutius, can it be?—
Gods, what a complicated Scene of Doubts
This Day has been to me!—It cannot be.

Quintus.
Nay more, the Pontifex, to crown the whole,
Strengthens the Senate's Pray'r, and has declar'd
Him free to stay; and that he neither breaks
His Faith to Heav'n, nor Honour to Mankind,
If he refuses to return to Carthage:
See where he holds him earnest in Discourse—
This Way they move too—

Corvus.
Ha! I fear him now:—
Gods! what is all Appearance?—what the Truth
Of seeming Honesty and Patriot-Zeal,
When one short Hour can change the gaudy Scene,
Presenting the Reverse?—We must be speedy, Friends:
If he resolves to stay—he shall not long—
Death can remove him—I'll about the Means:—

Quintus.
See, now they part;—and Regulus appears
Eas'd of the Burthen of conflicting Doubt,
And satisfy'd at full.

Corvus.
What Crowd is that
Entring the Gate, that send their Shouts before 'em?

Quintus.
I cannot guess.

Corvus.
It is no Matter:—Mutius,
Do thou the necessary Means prepare
Of thy Departure hence—be speedy, Mutius;
E'er on the Dial's Plate, the posting Sun
Has measur'd half the Hour, repair to me,
And all Things shall be ready:—At the Gate,
That looks toward Carthage, will I wait thy coming—
Fail me not, Mutius.

Mutius.
I am gone:

SCENE III.

Quintus.
Good Gods!
How far I had sail'd into Guilt, before
I thought I had left the Shore of Innocence!
O wou'd the Gale of Penitence arise
And drive me back to Safety—I were happy!
Try, Quintus, what thou can'st—so good a Master!
That made his Slaves almost his Children!—ha, he comes—
I cannot stay—the Sight of injur'd Virtue,
Strikes deeper than a Poignard to the Guilty:
To him I cannot speak—I may to Decius—
I'll find him out and ease my tortur'd Mind.

SCENE IV.

Regulus, Attendants.
Regulus.
O no! it cannot be:—what, stay with Honour?
Avowing Perjury, to stay with Honour?
If Oaths be disregarded—Come Confusion;
Come wild Disorder, leading, by the Hand,
The Harlot Vice, disfeatur'd of Humanity,
And every social Grace—Hot Violation,
With Harpy-talon'd Rapine, close the Scene,
Razing all Virtue from the human Heart:—
I must return to Carthage:—Who comes yonder?—

Servant.
The great Metellus, Sir; our fam'd Pro-Consul,
Attended by a Croud of shouting Romans,
Just ent'ring Rome.

Regulus.
'Tis he by all my Hopes:—
It is a timely Meeting;—for I find
My Spirits faint—As if some unseen Pow'r
Had mingled Water with the Stream of Health,
And lower'd the rich Juice:—But see, he comes.

SCENE V.

Regulus, Metellus, &c.
Regulus.
O great Metellus! welcome to my Arms!
Thou Scourge of Africk, and thou Pride of Rome:
I thank thee for my Country, for myself,
Her's, and my great Avenger—O methinks!
I see thee fighting in Sicilian Fields,
With Valour and Discretion on each Side;
I see the routed Carthaginians fly—
I see them plunge into the foaming Deep—
(A milder Fate than to encounter thee)
While Fear-wing'd Asdrubal forsakes the Field,
And hardly reaches Lylibæum's Walls:
I swear the bare Imagination fires me;
Ev'n Age, long frozen, feels this second Youth,
And melts before its artificial Heat.

Metellus.
Whatever Benefit our Rome has reap'd
From that well-meant, that fortunate Exploit,
Is doubly grateful, as it was the Means
Of seeing Regulus again at Rome:
So much, so long I panted for thy Presence;—

Believe me, in the Heat of martial Ardor,
(Had not the Senate's Orders check'd my Purpose)
I had embark'd my Legions—march'd them on,
And paid my Greeting in the Streets of Carthage.

Regulus.
I thank thy generous Love:—A fitter Juncture,
I hope will find thee thund'ring at her Gates:
Mean time, I can but wish thee to proceed;
Do to thy Country yet more Acts of Service,
Greater thou can'st not.

Metellus.
You o'er-rate me much,
Unmindful of your own heroick Deeds,
My great Examples:—Thou hast sure forgot—
Recall thy naval Victory to mind,
When Hanno fought, and when Hamilcar fled;
Heraclea, scarce recover'd from the Fright,
Still stands a Witness of the God-like Action:—
Then change the Scene to Africk, and remember
With what Rapidity you march'd along
From Place to Place:—Fame flew before your Arms,
And only sounded Regulus—to conquer:
An hundred Cities own'd the Roman Sway—
Ev'n Carthage—

Regulus.

Stop thee there, Metellus:
O spare my Shame, the deep Reproach of Regulus:—
And yet repeat it—Every Son of Rome,
Shou'd bear the Memory of that about him,
As the best Caution against headlong Rashness:

What Glory might I not have gain'd my Country?—
What did I lose her in one shameful Day?

Metellus.
You pass too hard a Censure on yourself:
The Gods determine Victory—not we:

Our Rome, unlike to Carthage, better knows
Th'Uncertainty of Fortune, than to think,
That we should share the Counsel of that Pow'r
Who fastens the Event to every Cause:
Short-sighted Man, scarce farther sees before him,
Than the blind Mole, Tenant of Earth's dark Womb,
Who scorns the Beam of Light—he can't enjoy.

Regulus.
And yet this Man, short-sighted as he is,
Will, in Presumption's Prospect, plume his Hopes,
(Unconscious of the Weakness of his Being)
And wing his daring Flight at heav'nly Knowledge;
Will arrogate Perfection to himself,
And strip the Shrines of Worship to adorn him.

Metellus.
This Subject better will employ our Leisure;
The present Moments are of more Importance:
As I was posting hitherward to Rome,
I heard of thy Arrival, and resolve
Again to leave us to return to Carthage:
But wherefore wilt thou go?—Thy Country holds thee;
Do not with Force irreverent break away!—
Thy Country calls thee—O regard her Voice!—
Look on thy common Parent, whose white Age
Demands thy filial Care to help her Weakness—
Support her—save her from th'impending Ruin.

Regulus.

Alas, Metellus!—'tis thy Friendship's Warmth,
And not thy Reason that wou'd keep me here:
Look on me shatter'd—can I help my Country?—
Sinking myself—am I a Prop for her?—
Wou'd not the trusted Weight, in crushing me,
Precipitate her Fall?—Thou art Metellus,
Her great Restorer;—thy reviving Hand,
Infusing the rich Cordial, lifts her up,

And makes her stand alone with youthful Vigour.

Go on, Metellus! lead her to the Field,
Warm her with Action—place her on some Mountain,
From whose fair Brow, she may behold her Sons
Struggling for Conquest—Let her see thee there,
Her youngest, her best lov'd;—ev'n in the Heat,
The Madness of the Fight—yet cool as Counsel
With all the Warmth of Glory at thy Heart.—
One Legion, hardly press'd, regains Advantage
By Succours timely sent by thee—Another,
Upon the Point of flying, wheels about,
And rallies at the Generals not the Trumpet's Voice;
Then quick thine Eye pierces far distant, and beholds
Where other Dangers call—nor call they long:
See, reinforc'd they press upon the Foe,
And in their Turn, compel 'em into Flight:
All their Necessities, like those of Nature,
Are scarcely felt before reliev'd;—and though thy Person
At the same time can only fill one Space—
Thy Care—like that of Heav'n—is universal.

Let her see this, and bless thy happy Birth.

Metellus.

No more, my Friend; thou speak'st against thyself;
Thou, who can'st plan so fair a Draught of Glory;
So many speaking Images of Fame—
Can'st yet perform thy Part:—Nor is thy Arm,
Thy Execution, what we chiefly want;
(Tho' great Camillus shew'd what Age cou'd do,
Ev'n in Confusion, and in flying Rout.)

By nobler Services Success is woo'd
By cool Deliberations, well-weigh'd Thoughts,
Prevented Accidents, foreseen Advantage,
Judgment correct, that only waits upon
Gray-hair'd Experience, and slow-teaching Time:—
Possess'd of these, Rome still demands thy Care,

Still wants her Regulus—still claims his Counsel.

Regulus.

It cannot be—Persuasion has no Breath
To alter my Resolves;—urge it no more:
Death might as soon be mov'd to give again
The Child to Life whom the fond Parent weeps for:
Therefore no more—let us address the Gods,
With Roman Piety, and Roman Firmness;
Be it our Wish to make ten thousand happy—
One is too poor a Care for noble Minds.

Go on, Metellus—leave me to my Fate—
Conquer for Rome—thou'rt follow'd to the Field
By shouting Millions, born the Sons of Conquest;
Sprung from those god-like Men, whom ev'n when dead
The mighty Pyrrhus' self beheld with Fear:
He saw their Wounds all honest—all before;
The Hand in Death, still clutch'd the faithful Sword,
And in the Face, Pain stagnated to Terror.

Metellus.
But why this strict Adherence to thy Honour
With Carthage, noted for her Breach of Faith
In private Friendships, and in publick Leagues,
The Proverb's Mark and Brand of Perfidy?
Is it a Merit to destroy ourselves,
And compliment our Foes with Foreign Virtues?
(Virtues they never heard of—or ne'er practis'd)
War is allow'd Deceit, its honest Guile,
And meritorious Falshood—shall an Oath
An Oath extorted—

Regulus.
No 'twas not extorted:
It was a Compact betwixt me and Carthage:
And mention not her Perfidy, Metellus,
With the most savage Foes maintain your Faith.

Metellus.
Still more I wonder

Regulus.
Wherefore, good Metellus?
Shall I do more than Rome has seen before?
When I look backwards, what Examples rise!
Did not Posthumius, not an Age ago,
To break the Candine Treaty, dedicate
Himself and Colleague to the Samnite Foe,
When Roman Glory panted for Revenge?
Shall Rome degenerate?—and have our Fathers,
Done Deeds beyond the Spirit of their Sons!
O 'tis a People's deepest Infamy,
Poorly to boast the Virtues of their Sires;
As if their Worth descended with their Lands,
And Fame and Glory were Inheritance.

Metellius.
Alas! I pity thee;

Regulus.
And wherefore pity me?
The Man who rises above Pain and Death,
Laughs at the soft Reproach of Pity's Tear.
Ha! Decius—why this Haste?—what are thy Tydings?—

SCENE VI.

Regulus, Metellus, Decius.
Metellus.
How great! how excellent must Virtue be!
If it can make us act like Regulus?

Regulus.
Decius, I go with thee.

Metellus.
I see the Time
Presses upon thee, and 'tis Interruption
Not to be answer'd—to detain thee longer:—
Farewell at once—heroic Regulus!

Regulus.
Metellus, fare-thee-well; I make no Doubt
When that far distant Time that calls thee hence,
To put on Immortality, is nigh;—
Like mine, thy last of Pray'rs—will be for Rome;—
The Gods protect thee.

SCENE VII.

Metellus.
Pride of Rome, farewell!
Thou art above my Praise—take all my Wonder:
If Honesty of Heart; if Truth unstain'd;
The strictest Honour, and the justest Sense,
Can, thro' revolving Years perpetuate Fame,
The last of Ages shall revere thy Name.

SCENE VIII.

Corvus.
Why comes not this slow Mutius?—how the Time
Loiters in Expectation!—then the Mind
Drags the dead Burthen of an hundred Years
In one short Moment's Space—the nimble Heart
Beats with impatient Throbs—sick of Delay,
And pants to be at Ease:—'tis well thou'rt come—

SCENE IX.

Corvus, Mutius.
Corvus.
I was accusing thee—say art thou ready?
Is all prepar'd?—Quintus?—say where is he?—
Why comes he not?

Mutius.
I thought to have found him here:
He cannot be long absent;—sure the Time
Is scarce expir'd—thou run'st before the Sun—
Are your Dispatches ready?

Corvus.
Here they are:—
If Regulus incline to stay at Rome,
He shall not live a Day:—Scaurus, my Agent,
Whose Care prepares their Baths, has undertaken
To give a good Account of him and Decius:
Of this I have appriz'd Himilco—mark, good Mutius:—
Inclosed in this lies the concerted Plan
Betwixt myself and Colleague, if the Consulship
Falls to our Wishes; underneath, the Names
Of those, gain'd over lately to our Party,
Whose combin'd Interest makes our Purpose look
With Eyes of Certainty: The Letter's Tenour
Asks the Remittance of some certain Sums,
Which Speed must see performed; with an Intreaty
To let thy Care convey them:—for your selfish Men
Deal not for Promises—they will have Earnest;
And Gold is the grand Cement: take 'em, Mutius,
Bestow 'em safe—

SCENE X.

Corvus, Mutius, Decius, Quintus, Guards.
Decius.
[Seizing the Pacquet.
Not till the Senate sees them:
Secure him Romans—

[Seize Mutius.
Corvus.
Ha! Damnation!—Decius—
Long have I wish'd thee dead—now to compleat it.

[Runs at Decius.
Decius.
Most impious Villain!

[Disarms Corvus.
Corvus.
Curse upon my Weakness!
He come to triumph too?—

SCENE XI.

Regulus, Corvus, Decius, Mutius, Quintus, &c.
Decius.
Romans, rejoice—Treason is brought to Light:—
Hail God-like Regulus! receive these Papers,
And if thou can'st, peruse the black Contents.

Corvus.
Ruin and Death!—but why do I complain?
Fear is unmanly, and 'tis vain to hope;—
I will despair—'tis equal, come what may—
Success were glorious—the Attempt was noble.

Regulus.
If any Guilt can equal thy Design,
'Tis thus to own no Shame at its Detection:
What shall I call thee—there is wanting yet—
(At least in Rome) a Name to do thee Justice:
Had'st thou Remorse, thou might'st have look'd about,
To find the Comfort of a Fellow-Crime;—
But wanting that, thou'rt so supremely wicked,
No Punishment they yet have try'd in Hell,
Can equal thy Desert—they must invent one.—
And yet this Day thou talk'd of Truth and Honour—
Where are they fled?

Corvus.
To thy romantick Brain;
Where the feign'd Names of Virtue and of Fame,
Are wrote on every Table—shadows all!—
Curse on thy moral Precepts!—Every Good
That greets us here, finds Entrance at the Sense:
I tell thee, Roman, all your fine Distinctions
That call this Man divine, and that a Villain,
Are but Religion's Cheat—what Sense bestows,
Is all we know, and all we can receive.

Regulus.
What ceaseless Labour must this Man have taken
To reach his Height of Guilt?—Elaborate Villain?—
Each Time thou act'st, and every Time thou speak'st,
The more I find thee a Disgrace to Nature:
Wou'dst thou destroy the Dignity of Man,
And level him with Brutes?—depose fair Reason,
And substitute wild, warring Appetites,
Disgracing her mild Sway?—But thou dost best—
The Man who dares to act as thou hast done,
Is in the right to banish his Reflection—
Thinking wou'd make him mad.

Corvus.
What, not yet done?
Am I bound up here to be Sentence-baited?
To hear thee preach by Rule, and by the Hour?
Why stay we here?—hop'st thou to gain a Convert?
Prithee be gone—thou wilt but lose thy Labour.

Regulus.

I do believe thee—Decius bear these Papers,
Together with those Wretches to the Senate:

Quintus, do thou attend, and to the Fathers,
Relate a full Detail of all their Treasons:
Look on these Men, and thank the gracious Gods,
That thou had'st Honesty enough to leave 'em!
Half enter'd in Perdition's darken'd Cell,
Praise the kind Pow'r that sent a Ray of Light
To shew thee back into the House of Virtue.

Corvus.
Ha!—Quintus my Betrayer?—but no matter—
Why shou'd I vainly hope for Truth from others,
Who never had that Merit in myself?
Had I succeeded in my great Design,
I cou'd have wanton'd in the Pains of Hell;
To fail is Punishment enough for me—
Worse than ten thousand Hells—Perdition seize thee!

SCENE XII.

Regulus, Decius.
Regulus.
Decius, once more commend me to the Senate;
Say, while I liv'd, 'twas my extreamest Pray'r,
To find out Means to raise the Roman Glory:
In my last Scene of Life, I thank the Gods!
Their Bounties have thrown out the great Occasion,
To leave my Country with an Act of Service:

Haste Decius—I shall wait for thy Return
With my lov'd Martia—haste—the Time is short—

SCENE XIII.

Regulus.
Alas! what Monsters find we amongst Men;
If the great End of Being can be lost,
And thus perverted to the worst of Crimes;
Let us shake off deprav'd Humanity,
Exchange Conditions with the savage Brute,
And for his blameless Instinct barter Reason.

The End of the Fourth ACT.