Boadicia A Tragedy |
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SCENE the eleventh.
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 | Boadicia |  |
SCENE the eleventh.
Venusia and Dumnorix.Dumnorix.
The fun is ris'n. All hail! thou last of days
To this nigh-finish'd being. Radiant pow'r,
Thou through thy endless journey mayst proclaim,
That Dumnorix dy'd free, for thou shallt view it.
59
Just as Flaminius warn'd us, is appear'd
To call Suetonius, and his legions on.
Come, desolation, tyranny resort
To thy new seat; come, slavery, and bend
The neck of Albion, all her sons debase,
And ancient virtue from their hearts expel.
Now then, ye honour'd mansions of our fathers,
Ye hallow'd altars, and ye awful groves,
The habitation of our gods, farewell!
And yet the guilty auth'ress of these woes
Deserves a share of praise, who, still retaining
One unextinguish'd spark of gen'rous honour,
Scorn'd to remain spectatress, or partaker
Of Albion's fall, and, dying, still is free.
Need I say more, Venusia?
Venusia.
Oh! my lord.
Dumnorix.
Why heaves that sigh?
Venusia.
Alas! I am a woman.
Dumnorix.
True, a defenceless woman, and expos'd
To keener sorrow by thy matchless beauty;
That charm, which captivates the victor's eye,
Yet helpless to withstand his savage force,
Throws wretched woman under double ruin.
But wherefore this? Thy virtue knows its duty.
Venusia.
Stay but a little.
Dumnorix.
aside.
Would I might for years!
But die that thought—False tenderness, away.
Thou British genius, who art now retiring
From this lost region, yet suspend thy flight;
And in this conflict lend me all thy spirit—
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Well, my Venusia; is thy soul resolv'd?
Or shall I still afford a longer pause?
Venusia.
Though my weak sex by nature is not arm'd
With fortitude, like thine, of this be sure;
That dear subjection to thy honour'd will,
Which hath my life directed, ev'n in death
Shall not forsake me; and thy faithful wife
Shall with obedience meet thy last commands.
But canst thou tell me; is it hard to die?
Dumnorix.
Oh! rather ask me, if to live in shame,
Captivity and sorrow be not hard?
Venusia.
Oh! miserable!
Dumnorix.
In a foreign land
The painful toils of servitude to bear
From an imperious mistress?
Venusia.
Dreadful thought!
Dumnorix.
Or be insulted with the hateful love
Of some proud master?
Venusia.
Oh! proceed
No further!
Dumnorix.
From thy native seat of dwelling,
From all the known endearments of thy home,
From parents, children, friends and—husband torn.
Venusia.
Stop there, and reach the potion; nor to drink
The cure of troubles will I longer pause.
| Boadicia | |