University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Temple of VESTA.
CICERO, TERENTIA, TULLIA.
CICERO.
Life of the World! First Principle and last!
All-powerful Element! Hail Vesta, hail!
To thy protecting Altars I bequeath
This Pledge; oh! may thine ever-wakeful fires
Catch and consume the wretch, that dares attempt
This hospitable shrine. Now hold, my heart!
Terentia, come forward; time is short,
Yet I have much to say—my wife, my wife!

TERENTIA.
O that thus folded in each others arms,
Here, as we've liv'd, together we might fall!
Or parting hence in social exile join'd,
Set forth, and take our fates.

CICERO.
Might that be so,
Ruin would lose its name; Exile its terrors,
And Clodius reap no triumph from my fall.
But Heaven that gave a blessing to our bed,
Stampt the great Law of Nature on my heart,
And bound me to it by the sacred ties
Of fatherly affection; can I then
Wed my poor Tullia to disgrace and sorrow,
And to my Boy bequeath the bitter portion
Of Exile, and hereditary ruin?
Rather, just Gods! if so ye deem it fit,
Let me atone for all; on me be pour'd
Your whole collected vengeance, and repay me.
For these dire wrongs, this undeserv'd affliction,
An hundred fold, as heav'nly bounty should,
In blessings on my children.

TULLIA.
O my father,
When thou art gone, and the great mound is broke
Which stood betwixt us and a stormy world,
And threw the black and beating surges from us,
Th'exasperated torrent rolling back,
Whelming upon us thro' the fatal breach,
Shall burst resistless o'er our feeble banks,
And pour a deluge of destruction round.

CICERO.
Daughter, I've look'd into the hearts of men,
And trac'd the shifting passions, as they turn
To opposite extremes; there I have mark'd,
When Envy keeps the throne, 'tis Hell within us:
Soon as the guilty passion is allay'd,
The green and morbid colour of our souls
Is chang'd to virgin white; a gentle breeze
Of pity springs within us; with fond sorrow
Upon our prostrate rival we look down,
And mourn our own success.

TERENTIA.
Clodius relent?—
Gabinius feel the gentle touch of pity?—
Bid the sun blanch the raven's jetty plume,
Tho' Nature steep'd it in her darkest dye,
And it shall sooner take a dove-like hue,
Than their fell hearts remorse. What fence so high
To bound their vast ambition? What so sacred
To stem their impious fury? Why this night
May they not force us hence? Alas, what help?
Our cries will then not reach thee; thou'lt hold on
Thy solitary course, and fondly think us
In this asylum safe. What chance that he,
Who mocks the Goddess, should revere her Temple?

CICERO.
Nature, that made you pow'rless, made herself
Your fond Protectress; set a guard about you
Of winning charms, and bid you walk secure
Amidst a warring world; then fear not Clodius;
Fierce tho' he be, he cannot quite strike off
The seal that Heav'n hath set upon its work,
And cease to be a man.—Now, Atticus,
Comes Curio with you?

Enter ATTICUS.
ATTICUS.
At the Capuan Gate
He waits your coming: All the City wakes;
Pale staring forms course up and down the streets,
Half-dead with fear and wonder; naked some,
As if the Gaul was at their doors; all weep
And smite their breasts, and call upon your name:
Amongst the rest, I met your freedman Tiro;
Horrid and wan he look'd, and bath'd in tears;
With thick and falt'ring speech he question'd me
Of his dear Lord. What follows is the worst—
Young Frugi, as 'tis said, by Clodius' hand,
Was in the Capitol most basely murder'd;
And lies in public view a lifeless Corse.

CICERO.
Forbid it Heav'n!

(Tullia falls into her mother's arms.
TERENTIA.
Alas! my child, my child!
Keen Anguish wrings her heart. She faints; she dies.
Help, help, your daughter dies.

TULLIA.
Would Heav'n I might!

TERENTIA.
O my prophetic Soul! Thy story, Atticus,
Hath murder'd my poor Tullia; hapless Love,
Thy Victim she expires.

TULLIA.
It will not be;
My officious heart yet beats, and feeble Grief
Slowly puts out the stubborn lamp of Life.
What have I done? Usurp'd a Father's right,
And giv'n my soul away.

CICERO.
Severe, O Gods!
To me and to my House, hath been thy doom.
Such evils from conceal'd affections spring.
Why, O my daughter—? but I'll not reproach thee.

TULLIA.
Shame stopt my voice; Honour, and conscious Pride,
That scorn'd to meet on less than equal terms,
And hope of happier days: While Frugi liv'd
Thy sorrows kept possession of my heart,
And Love receded from the stronger guest;
Now his dear image rises to my view
So piteously array'd, with such a train
Of tender thoughts assails this shatter'd frame,
That Reason quits her fort, and flies before,
To the last verge of phrenzy and despair.

CICERO.
O Frugi, O my Son! for by that name
Henceforth I'll call thee ever, what dire fate
Hangs o'er the fortunes and the friends of Cicero?
What curse shall I invoke? Where'er I turn,
Full in my view that hated monster stands,
Thwarts every hope, and murders every joy.
O friend, hast thou no comfort to bestow?
Revoke the cruel tale: Saidst thou the Capitol?
It cannot be—we parted thence together:
With hasty strides I saw him shape his course
Strait to the Caelian mount.

TERENTIA.
'Tis true he lives,
And I renounce my fears. Shame on his tongue,
Who told you this false tale.

ATTICUS.
'Twas your own Tiro.
Why will you thus provoke the fatal truth?
Lost in the wild disorder of the night,
As thro the city streets he sought you out,
Chance led him to the Capitol: At once
The well-known form of Clodia struck his view;
Before the Temple's porch aloft she stood;
Musing and sad she seem'd. When soon, behold!
With loud recoil the sacred doors flew back;
Forth rush'd a ghastly form, and wav'd a sword
Dripping with blood; when with a voice that shook
The vaulted dome, and spoke him very Clodius,
“'Tis done (he cried) vengeance has had her fill,
“And Frugi is no more.” At that dire word,
Tiro affrighted, shrunk, and fled unseen.

TULLIA.
Oh! 'tis apparent all; 'tis Truth as clear
As Oracle e're spoke. Now who shall comfort me?
Now who shall reason him to Life again,
Or me to Peace? will you, or you, attempt it?
Ah! no; ye both despair. Then give me way,
And since ye cannot bring to me my Caius,
I'll fly to him.—
(Frugi enters.
Nay, if your tombs can't hold you,
But you must rise with all your wounds about you,
And stalk abroad in common with the Living,
The world's too narrow for us both: Down, down!
Or give us up your Graves.—Nay, now—'tis past.

(Frugi catches her in his arms.
FRUGI.
Why do you bend such fearful eyes on me?
Speak he that can, and tell me whence this horror!

ATTICUS.
Joyful Surprize, not Horror, wraps us thus,
To see thee living, whom Report had murder'd.

FRUGI.
Who then hath done this deed?

(Looking on Tullia.
CICERO.
Thou hast, my son.

FRUGI.
So is my guilt, my blessing.

TULLIA.
Come, unhand me.
I knew him and his errand: I can die
In spite of you; Death's thousand doors are open,
And this rebellious Spirit will break prison,
To make itself an entrance.

CICERO.
Lead her forth.
She's thine, if Heav'n restore her.

FRUGI.
Then, good Heaven,
Or calm her senses, or extinguish mine.

(Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Street in Rome.
CLODIUS, GABINIUS.
CLODIUS.
Gabinius, welcome. Wherefore droops my friend?
What, foil'd at your late revel? You have ta'en
Too full a meal of Tullia's maiden fruit,
And the pall'd appetite now turns aside
With loathing and aversion.

GABINIUS.
Clodius, no;
She's lost; perdition light on him that stole her!
Sure some curst Demon hovers in the air,
And showers down mischief on this fatal night.
She's vanish'd, gone, untasted, unenjoy'd,
Snatch'd like a dream from the deluded sight,
And left no trace behind, but Shame and Anguish,
And racking Disappointment.

CLODIUS.
Curst mischance!
What villain tore her from you?

GABINIUS.
Oh! no more.
Thou hast thy sorrows, Clodius, I have mine.
Liberal of Ill, Fate hath bestow'd on each,
Griefs of their own, and not to thee the least.

CLODIUS.
What are they? Speak. Dost pause? O fear me not.
Ills cannot come too sudden for the brave:
I live at war with Fate, and scorn to hold
My being in unmanly base dependence
Upon the wayward stars; but seize the present,
And bid defiance to the coming hour.

GABINIUS.
Clodia is dead.

CLODIUS.
Why then I thank thee, Nature,
That when you made this frame of such frail stuff,
So sensible of harm, so ill array'd
To combat sharp Misfortune, yet you cas'd
My Heart in temper'd steel, and made it proof
Against the soft compunctious stroke of Pity,
Bidding it laugh at all that Fate can do.
Now, if thou can'st, relate the Tale of Death,
And keep no circumstance of horror back;
For 'tis a sound familiar to my ear,
And needs no softening to inure me to it.

GABINIUS.
Alone, and musing on my wayward Fate,
As tow'rds Mount Palatine I took my way
A short hour since, I met that wretched woman,
Whom you no more call Sister: Mad she seem'd,
Convulsion shook her frame; wild Horror glar'd
In her chang'd visage; eager was her speech,
And broke with frequent sighs: She bad me follow;
In silence I obey'd; she led me on,
Nor cast a look behind, till to the fount
Of Niobe we came.

CLODIUS.
I know the place,
South of Mount Aventine it lies; the grove
Of spreading beeches, that embower the fount,
Was her most favour'd spot.

GABINIUS.
There first she stop'd:
When, turning short, she cried, (how shall I speak it?)
“Go, tell my savage, my incestuous Brother,
“That you have seen me mad. Hark! I am call'd—
“But take this secret with you e're we part,
“There is a Hell for Murder and for Incest:
“Metellus hath been with me, my late Lord,
“Whom I, inhuman! murder'd, to make room
“For this perfidious Brother, told me so;
“And I believe it spite of Epicurus.”
Then turning from me, quick as thought she buried
This dagger in her breast: “Take it, she cried,
“To Clodius bear his last best present back,
“This weapon reeking with a Sister's blood;
“And tell him—” More she would have said, but Death
In everlasting silence seal'd her lips.

CLODIUS.
So!

(Taking and looking on the dagger.
GABINIUS.
Do not think too deeply: This sad story
Dwells in our bosoms only; wrapt in night
Her mute attendants bear her body home,
And weep her death, unknowing of the cause.

CLODIUS.
Fate now, I know thy utmost. Take the dagger:
If, when I look upon those limbs in Death,
My Heart within me sinks, and coward Nature
Melts to unwilling tears; then strike it home
One saving stroke, prevent the gathering sigh,
And meet it e're it rises to my lips.

GABINIUS.
May all the Gods confound me, if I spare you!
But now awhile retire.

CLODIUS.
And why retire?
What! Lover-like beneath some yew-tree's shade,
To stand with folded arms and drooping head,
Poring upon some moulder'd monument
By the pale moon? or holding sad discourse
With its inhabitant the Owl? Away!
No, I'll abroad; out-face the flaring day:
I never yet knew grief, but Wine cou'd cure it;
Wine is the Lethe of the Poet's Fable;
And, Clodia, there I'll bury thy remembrance.

GABINIUS.
No, lay that thorn for ever to thy breast
To keep Revenge awake.

CLODIUS.
Revenge? Ye Gods!
How flat is Life, unseason'd with Revenge?
If Glory gilds it not, how blank the page?
Had I in store myriads of dreaming years,
I'd set 'em all upon one desp'rate cast,
And mock at Cicero in the arms of Death.

GABINIUS.
Then take this dagger back, and on its blade,
With bloody characters empurpled o'er,
Read the last will of Clodia: Hah! what says it?

CLODIUS.
Thou curst Remembrancer! 'twice aim'd in vain
At Caius Frugi's breast, now dy'd, alas!
In the life-blood of her, who sent thee to me,
Lie there, and make acquaintance with my Heart.

GABINIUS.
And why not plant it, where it first was aim'd,
In Caius Frugi's breast? How my soul fires
At that detested name! O Clodius, Clodius,
This is the hour, if thou dar'st do a deed
To make thy name a terror, and appall
Ev'n Heav'n itself; this is th'important hour.
In Vesta's Fane assembles all the House
Of Cicero; a weak unguarded crew,
Fondly presuming on their sacred refuge,
And confident 'gainst all attempts.

CLODIUS.
Enough.
Not all the Synod of the Gods can shake me.
Did I respect thee, Fauna, and thy rites,
Goddess, rever'd of women? Then, O Vesta,
In spite of thee and thy perennial fires,
Ev'n at thy altar's foot I'll seize my Victims;
While the chaste flame looks pale at my attempt,
And dimly lights me to my great revenge.

(Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Scene returns to the Temple of VESTA.
CICERO, TERENTIA, TULLIA, ATTICUS, CAIUS FRUGI.
CICERO.
Urge me no more; 'tis fixt for Sicily:
The Justice of my Government, the Grace
I've ever shewn the Island, still are fresh
In all men's memories; if Gratitude
Yet dwells in human hearts, it must be there.

ATTICUS.
Fated to conquer and corrupt the world,
Victorious Rome in every soil and clime
Hath sow'd her fertile vices; Virtue ever
Bleeds at the side of Freedom: Greece alone,
Triumphant in her fall, hath with her arts
Made Captive her Despoiler, and remains
A land of refuge 'gainst oppressive wrong,
The Nurse of Science and the Seat of Peace.
Thither, my Friend, betake thee.

CICERO.
Ah! no more;
My heart I give amongst you; for my body,
Which Rome thus casts away, fall where it may,
It is a sorry thing, nor worth the purchase
Of so much soil as it will cover.

TERENTIA.
Athens
Has my voice; but, where'er you bend your flight,
Be still thyself, my Marcus; no retirement
Can hide a great man from the world, for Rome
Hath eyes in every sphere, and they will watch you,
Tho' buried deep within Sicilian shades,
As when you stood the foremost of mankind,
And sway'd the Fate of Empires.

CICERO.
O Terentia,
'Tis hard, but just withall; for mine's a Heart
Slightly made up by Nature, in whose compound
Preside the soft and sensible Affections,
And bend to every pressure. But why speaks not
My dearest Tullia? has thy Caius yet
Allay'd the wild disorder of thy mind,
And sooth'd it into peace?

TULLIA.
The storm is past;
Sorrows as deep, tho' calmer, now succeed;
My soul shuts out each soft and joyful sense,
Ev'n Love itself, to entertain thy wrongs.
For thee each morn e're Phoebus streaks the East,
With early Orisons I'll waken Heaven;
For thee each night shall find me on my knees;
No note of mirth, no ill-according joy,
Shall break the tenor of my pious task,
Till the wish'd hour, when wearied Fate relents,
And Heav'n recalls her exil'd Patriot home.

CICERO.
Be it your care to wean her from her griefs,
And lead her with a watchful hand thro' Life;
Yet at some times indulge her in her tears,
Nor grudge that tribute to a Father's name.
Now with Pomponius to the Capuan Gate
Depart: My bursting Heart must have its vent;
And trust me he's the best Philosopher,
Who keeps the moments of his weakness private.

FRUGI.
Yet e're we part, before this awful shrine,
Here in the presence of the Guardian Goddess;
Let me conjure thee by the name of Father,
O crown my hopes, and consecrate my Love.

TULLIA.
Why wilt thou urge us both to our destruction?
Ah! wherefore tempt this black ill-omen'd hour,
For Treason only fit, for Lust and Murder,
And magic Incantations. This a time
To ask a blessing in? hence must we date
Our inauspicious nuptials? here commence
Our dark unhallow'd course? Forbid it, Heav'n!

CICERO.
Be wise, be virtuous, and defy the Stars.
Come near me both.—Here o'er this holy flame.
I join your hands, an emblem of your hearts:
Henceforth be one.—Like this perennial fire,
So be your Loves aspiring, ardent, pure,
Perpetual; ceasing not till this expires.

The Flame is seen to sink gradually, and at length goes out. They stand amazed at the Omen, when suddenly a great Noise is heard without.
FRUGI.
Hark! they assault the Temple; we're beset;
Clodius is at our doors: Impious attempt!

(Atticus and Frugi go out.
TULLIA.
O Heav'n and Earth! where run you, Caius, Husband?
Help, help, they murder my dear, dear, defender.

A clashing of swords. Frugi retreats fighting, and falls at Tullia's feet. Clodius and Gabinius enter with Followers: Clodius aduances to Cicero.
CLODIUS.
So; you are found.

CICERO.
Hangs the roof o'er thee yet?
Gods! Gods! why sleep ye? wherefore rise ye not
Ye violated Fires? in our defence
Why blaze not forth your Altars, and avenge
This Sacrilege?

CLODIUS.
Must I despise thee too?
Rail on thou credulous and shallow Pedant,
Till thy Gods hear thee, or till I relent.
But know to thy confusion, not the Winds,
That sweep the Scythian desart, are more deaf,
Than are thy fancied Deities; nor Rocks,
That shake those Winds from off their icy sides,
More hard, or more unfeeling than my heart.

CICERO.
Villain profest and shameless!

GABINIUS.
Time is short;
Pomponius is escap'd; Caius yet breathes.

CLODIUS.
What, was my sword too short? this dagger then
Shall piece it out, and find his Heart.

TULLIA.
Away!
Thou'st done thy work too well, inhuman wretch!
The sternest murderers will turn aside,
Nor dare to look upon the deed they've done;
Thou only tak'st a cool delight in blood,
Can'st reason and descant upon thy trade,
And, butcher-like, deface and carve the slain.

CLODIUS.
Drag 'em asunder.

TULLIA.
That ye shall not do;
Thus will I screen his poor remains of Life.
Now, now, transfix us both; the Wife and Husband;
The living and the dying; 'tis enough,
So I can hold off Death one moment from him,
And meet it in its passage to his Heart.

CLODIUS.
Then take thy wish.

(Offers to kill her.
CICERO.
Ah! stop thy desperate hand.
Let this alone; behold! a Father kneels.
O Clodius, thou hast brought me to the Earth;
Enjoy my shame, but spare my daughter's life.

CLODIUS.
Hah! this is vengeance. Let me view thee well:
Kneel'st thou, proud Spirit? Wou'd all Rome were here
Spectators of my triumph! Come what may,
I've liv'd enough.

GABINIUS.
Hoa! Catiline, where art thou?
Burst from thy sleep of Death; this is a sight
To weigh against Elysium.

TERENTIA.
Rise for shame;
Rise and defy 'em; their insulting mockery
Is sharper than their swords.

CICERO.
What have I done?
O coward Nature! is there no way left
To save a Child, but by a Father's shame?
Each drop of blood about me that is Roman
Rebels against this weakness: But remember,
When you report this deed, report withal
That he who kneel'd to save a Daughter's life,
Disdain'd to ask his own.

TULLIA.
Who asks for life,
When this dear youth expires? Death grows upon him,
Nor needs your daggers to ensure his victim.
How piteously his eyes are fix'd on me!
Convulsion shakes each joint; he cannot utter,
Yet his lips move most speakingly. Where are ye?
Ye talk'd of daggers; who will plant one here?
Or must I linger till distraction ends me,
And on this pavement dash my desperate brains?

GABINIUS.
That groan's his last. My vengeance asks no more.

CLODIUS.
This consolation comes too late for thee,
Unhappy Clodia: Yet it glads me well.
Hence with these women to the Public Court,
And there in full assembly urge their crimes;
Be it my task to cast this Exile forth,
And execute the Doom my Country past.

(Guards seize Terentia.
CICERO.
Unhallow'd villains! loose your brutal hold.
O my Terentia; how this wrings my Heart!

TERENTIA.
Fear not, my Marcus; we shall meet again;
If not, I will not shame thee at my Death,
But suffer as a Roman Matron should.

(They force her off.
Guards take away Frugi's body, and force Tullia away.
TULLIA.
Where do you drag me? We must part, my Caius;
Relentless monsters, can ye view that face
And pay no reverence? Howsoe'er ye treat
The living, do no violence to the dead.
These are my nuptial joys.—Alas, my Father!
And dost thou weep? O agonizing sight!
Come, let me go—for evermore farewel!

(Exit.
CICERO, CLODIUS, and Guards.
CICERO.
Well, my Tormentor, can'st thou aught invent
Deeper and keener than the pangs I feel;
Or is thy vengeance wearied?

CLODIUS.
I have liv'd
To laugh at thee, and all thy patriot schemes,
To see thy Palace dust, thyself an Exile,
A prostrate Beggar bending to the earth;
Thy House of all its borrow'd splendor strip'd,
And to its first obscurity reduc'd:
Henceforth I think not of thee.

CICERO.
Not think of me?
Dream on, till Vengeance wake thee, till thy Conscience
Bloated and swell'd, from Pleasure's guilty feast
Starts up aghast, turns suddenly upon thee,
And stings thee to the Heart; and mark me, Traitor,
In the great scale and order of Creation
All have their parts; but your's are servile uses,
Monsters of Vice; yet in the hand of Heaven
Ye minister to Good, and are the instruments
To tent the hollow-hearted, and distinguish
Between the similar back-sliding hypocrite,
And the long-suffering single-hearted man:
When you have done your work, you're thrown aside,
As such base tools should be.

CLODIUS.
Base do you call me?
O thou more wretched than the basest Beggar!
For he unquestion'd breathes the liberal air,
Drinks health and pleasure at the running fount;
'Gainst thee the elements are shut, the Earth
Our common parent disavows thee, thee,
Thy Country's out-cast, and the sport of Nature.

CICERO.
Blush thou, for having made me what I am.
I sav'd my Country; thou hast driven me from it.
All good men bless me; thee all ill ones serve.
Thus by the larger portion of mankind
I'm banish'd; thou condemned by the best:
Farewell; Posterity decide betwixt us!

(Exit.
CLODIUS
Remains.
His words go thro' my soul; my cause is weak,
And my good Genius fails me: Must I own
There is a dignity, a grace in Virtue,
Which Vice in all its pomp can never reach?
With all the ensigns of his power about him,
I saw, and sigh'd not at the Consul's greatness:
Now he appears so awful in distress,
That I most envy when I most oppress.