SCENE I.
Corvus, Mutius.
Corvus.
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;
