University of Virginia Library

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.