University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene a Gallery in the Ambassador's Palace.
REGULUS,
alone.

Enter Publius.
REGULUS.
My Publius, welcome!
What tidings dost thou bring? what says the senate?
Is yet my fate determin'd? quickly tell me.—

PUBLIUS.
I cannot speak, and yet, alas! I must.

REGULUS.
Tell me the whole—

PUBLIUS.
Wou'd I were rather dumb!

REGULUS.
Publius, no more delay:—I charge thee speak.

PUBLIUS.
The senate gives permission you shall go.

REGULUS.
Blest spirit of Rome! thou hast at last prevail'd—
I thank the Gods, I have not liv'd in vain!
Where is Hamilcar?—find him—let us go,
For Regulus has nought to do in Rome;
I have accomplish'd her important work,
And must depart.

PUBLIUS.
Ah my unhappy father!

REGULUS.
Unhappy, Publius, did'st thou say unhappy?
Can the distinguish'd man deserve that name
Who to his latest breath can serve his country?

PUBLIUS.
Like thee, my father, I adore my country,
Yet weep with anguish o'er thy cruel chains.

REGULUS.
Dost thou not know that life's a slavery?
The body is the chain that binds the soul,
A yoke that every mortal must endure.
Woud'st thou lament—lament the general fate,
The chain that nature gives, entail'd on all,
Not these I wear.

PUBLIUS.
Forgive, forgive my sorrows;
I know, alas! too well, those fell barbarians
Intend thee instant death.

REGULUS.
So shall my life
And servitude, together have an end.—
Publius, farewell! nay do not follow me—

PUBLIUS.
Alas! my father, if thou ever lov'd'st me,
Refuse me not the mournful consolation,
To pay the last sad offices of duty
I e'er can shew thee.—

REGULUS.
No!—Thou can'st fulfil
Thy duty to thy father, in a way
More grateful to him. I must strait embark.
Be it mean-while thy pious care to keep
The poor Attilia from a sight, I fear,
Would rend her gentle heart.—Her tears, my son,
Would dim the glories of thy father's triumph.
Her sinking spirits are subdu'd by grief,
And shou'd her sorrows pass the bounds of reason,
Publius have pity on her tender age,
Compassionate the weakness of her sex;
We must not hope to find in her soft soul,
The strong exertion of a manly courage.—
Support her fainting spirit, and instruct her
By thy example, how a Roman ought
To bear misfortune. O indulge her weakness!
And be to her the father she will lose.
I leave my daughter to thee—I do more,—
I leave to thee the conduct of—thyself.
—Ah Publius! I perceive thy courage fails—
I see the quivering lip, the starting tear;—
That lip, that tear calls down my mounting soul.
Resume thyself—Oh! do not blast my hope!
Yes—I'm compos'd—thou wilt not mock my age—
Thou art—thou art a Roman—and my son.

Exit.
PUBLIUS.
And is he gone?—now be thyself, my soul,
Hard is the conflict, but the triumph glorious.
Yes.—I must conquer these too tender feelings,
The blood that fills these veins demands it of me,
Th'example I've before me too requires it.
Forgive me, Rome, and glory, if I yielded
To nature's strong attack:—I must subdue it.
My, father, now I feel I am thy son.

Enter Attilia and Barce.
ATTILIA.
My brother, I'm distracted, wild with fear—
Tell me, O tell me what I dread to know.
Is it then true?—I cannot speak—my father!—

BARCE.
May we believe the fatal news?

PUBLIUS.
Yes Barce.
It is determin'd. Regulus must go.

ATTILIA.
Immortal Powers!—What say'st thou?

BARCE.
Can it be?
Thou can'st not mean it.

ATTILIA.
Then you've all betray'd me.

PUBLIUS.
Thy grief avails not.

Enter Hamilcar and Licinius.
BARCE.
Pity us Hamilcar!

ATTILIA.
Oh help, Licinius, help the lost Attilia!

HAMILCAR.
My Barce! there's no hope.

LICINIUS.
Ah! my fair mourner.
All's lost.

ATTILIA.
What all, Licinius, saidst thou all?
Not one poor glimpse of comfort left behind?
Tell me at least where Regulus is gone:
The daughter shall partake the father's chains,
And share the woes she knew not to prevent.

[Going.]
PUBLIUS.
What wou'd thy wild despair? Attilia, stay,
Thou must not follow; this excess of grief
Wou'd much offend him.

ATTILIA.
Dost thou hope to stop me?

PUBLIUS.
I hope thou wilt resume thy better self,
And recollect thy father will not bear—

ATTILIA.
I only recollect I am a daughter,
A poor defenceless, helpless, wretched daughter!
Away—and let me follow.

PUBLIUS.
No, my sister.

ATTILIA.
Detain me not—Ah! while thou hold'st me here,
He goes, and I shall never see him more.

BARCE.
My friend, be comforted, he cannot go
Whilst here Hamilcar stays.

ATTILIA.
O Barce, Barce,
Who will advise, who comfort, who assist me?
Hamilcar, pity me.—Thou wilt not answer?

HAMILCAR.
Rage and astonishment divide my soul.

ATTILIA.
Licinius, wilt thou not relieve my sorrows?

LICINIUS.
Yes, at my life's expence, my heart's best treasure,
Would'st thou instruct me how.

ATTILIA.
My brother too—
Ah! look with mercy on thy sister's woes!

PUBLIUS.
I will at least instruct thee how to bear them,
My sister, yield thee to thy adverse fate;
Think of thy father, think of Regulus,
Has he not taught thee how to brave misfortune?
'Tis but by following his illustrious steps
Thou e'er canst merit to be call'd his daughter.

ATTILIA.
And is it thus thou dost advise thy sister?
Are these, ye Gods, the feelings of a son?
Indifference here becomes impiety—
Thy savage heart ne'er felt the dear delights
Of filial tenderness—the thousand joys
That flow from blessing, and from being bless'd!
No—did'st thou love thy father, as I love him,
Our kindred souls wou'd be in unison;
And all my sighs be echoed back by thine.
Thou would'st—alas!—I know not what I say.—
Forgive me, Publius,—but indeed, my brother,
I do not understand this cruel coldness,

HAMILCAR.
Thou may'st not—but I understand it well.
His mighty soul full as to thee it seems
Of Rome, and glory—is enamour'd—caught,
Enraptur'd with the beauties of fair Barce—
She stays behind if Regulus departs.
Behold the cause of the well-acted virtue
Of this mock patriot—curst dissimulation!

PUBLIUS.
And can'st thou entertain such vile suspicions?
Gods! what an outrage to a son like me!

HAMILCAR.
Yes, Roman! now I see thee as thou art,
Thy naked soul divested of its veil,
Its specious colouring, its dissembled virtues;
Thou hast plotted with the senate to prevent
Th'exchange of captives. All thy subtle arts,
Thy smooth inventions have been set to work—
—The base refinements of your polish'd land.

PUBLIUS.
In truth the doubt is worthy of an African.

[Contemptuously.]
HAMILCAR.
I know—

PUBLIUS.
Peace, Carthaginian, peace, and hear me.
Dost thou not know, that on the very man
Thou hast insulted Barce's fate depends?

HAMILCAR.
Too well I know the cruel chance of war,
Gave her, a blooming captive, to thy mother,
Who, dying, left the beauteous prize to thee.

PUBLIUS.
Now see the use a Roman makes of power.
Heav'n is my witness how I lov'd the maid!
O she was dearer to my soul than light,
Dear as the vital stream that feeds my heart:
But know my honor's dearer still than she.
I do not even hope thou wilt believe me;
Thy brutal soul, as savage as thy clime,
Can never taste those elegant delights,
Those pure refinements, love and glory yield;
'Tis not to thee I stoop for vindication,
Alike to me thy friendship or thy hate;
But to remove from others a pretence
For branding Publius with the name of villain,
That they may see no sentiment but honor
Informs this bosom—Barce thou art free.
Thou hast my leave with him to quit this shore.—
Now learn, Barbarian, how a Roman loves!

Exit.
BARCE.
He cannot mean it!

HAMILCAR.
Oh exalted virtue,
Which challenges esteem tho' from a foe.

[Looking after Publius.]
ATTILIA.
Ah! cruel Publius, wilt thou leave me thus?
Thus leave thy sister?

BARCE.
Didst thou hear Hamilcar,
Oh! didst thou hear the god-like youth resign me?

[HAMILCAR and LICINIUS seem lost in Thought.]
ATTILIA
to LICINIUS.
Wilt thou not speak to me?

BARCE.
My lov'd Hamilcar
Ungrateful! not one word, one smile, one look.

HAMILCAR.
Farewell, I will return.

LICINIUS.
Farewell, my love!

BARCE.
Hamilcar, where—

ATTILIA.
Alas! where art thou going?

[To Licinius]
LICINIUS.
If possible, to save the life of Regulus,

ATTILIA.
But by what means?—Ah! how canst thou effect it?

LICINIUS.
Since the disease so desperate is become,
We must apply a desperate remedy.

HAMILCAR,
after a long Pause.
Yes—I will mortify this generous foe;
I'll be reveng'd upon this stubborn Roman,
Not by defiance bold, or feats of arms,
But by a means more sure to work it's end;
By emulating his exalted worth,
And shewing him a virtue like his own;
Such a refin'd revenge as noble minds
Alone can practise, and alone can feel.

ATTILIA.
If thou wilt go, Licinius, let Attilia
At least go with thee.

LICINIUS.
No, my gentle love,
Too much I prize thy safety and thy peace.
Let me intreat thee stay with Barce here.

BARCE.
I go with my Hamilcar.

HAMILCAR.
Barce, no;
I do conjure thee by our former loves,
Thou wilt not follow me!

ATTILIA.
Then, ere ye go,
Explain the latent purpose of your souls.

LICINIUS.
Soon shalt thou know it all—Farewell! Farewell!
Let us keep Regulus in Rome, or die.

[To Hamilcar as he goes out.]
HAMILCAR.
Yes.—These smooth, polish'd Romans shall confess
The soil of Afric too produces heroes.
What, tho' our pride perhaps be less than their's,
Our virtue may be equal. They shall own
The path of honor's not unknown to Carthage,
Nor, as they arrogantly think, confin'd
To their proud Capitol.—Yes.—They shall learn
The Gods look down on other climes than their's.

Exit.
ATTILIA.
What gone, both gone? What can I think or do?
Licinius leaves me, led by love and virtue,
To rouse the citizens to war and tumult,
Which may, alas! be fatal to himself,
And injure Rome, and yet not benefit
My father. Ah! my Barce, I am lost
In a wild labyrinth of doubt and fear.
Protecting Deities! preserve them both!

BARCE.
Nor is thy Barce more at ease, my friend;
I dread the fierceness of Hamilcar's courage;
Rous'd by the grandeur of thy brother's deed,
And stung by his reproaches, his great soul
Will scorn to be outdone by him in glory.
Who, who can tell what perils he may run,
To what alarming accidents expose
A life, to Barce dearer than her own?

ATTILIA.
Ah me! what dangers may attend them both,
I tremble but to think!—My brother too!

BARCE.
Come, let us rise to courage and to life,
Forget the weakness of our helpless sex,
And mount above these coward woman's fears.
Hope dawns upon my mind—my prospect clears,
And every cloud now brightens into day.

ATTILIA.
How different are our souls! Thy sanguine temper
Flush'd with the native vigor of thy soil,
Supports thy spirits; while the sad Attilia,
Sinking with more than all her sex's fears,
Sees not a beam of hope; or, if she sees it,
'Tis not the bright, warm splendor of the sun;
It is a sickly and uncertain glimmer,
A feeble ray, which, like a languid glare
Of instantaneous light'ning, passes by.
It shews but not diminishes the danger,
And leaves my poor benighted soul, as dark
As it had never shone.

BARCE.
Come, let us go.
Yes, Joys unlook'd for now shall gild thy days,
And brighter suns reflect propitious rays.

Exeunt.
Scene, a Hall looking towards the Garden.
Enter Regulus, speaking to one of Hamilcar's Attendants.
Where's your Ambassador? where is Hamilcar?
Ere this he doubtless knows the Senate's will.
Go seek him out—Tell him we must depart—
Rome has no hope for him, or wish for me.
Longer delay were criminal in both.

Enter Manlius.
REGULUS.
He comes. The Consul comes! my noble friend!
O let me strain thee to this grateful heart,
And thank thee for the vast, vast debt I owe thee!
But for thy friendship I had been a wretch—
Had been compell'd to shameful liberty.
To thee I owe the glory of these chains,
My faith inviolate, my fame preserv'd,
My honor, virtue, glory, bondage,—all!

MANLIUS.
But we shall lose thee, so it is decreed—
Thou must depart?

REGULUS.
Because I must depart
You will not lose me; I were lost indeed
Did I remain in Rome.

MANLIUS.
Ah! Regulus,
Why, why so late do I begin to love thee?
Alas! why have the adverse fates decreed,
I ne'er must give thee other proofs of friendship,
Than these, so fatal and so full of woe?

REGULUS.
Thou hast perform'd the duties of a friend:
Of a just, faithful, true and noble friend.
Yet generous as thou art if thou constrain me
To sink beneath a weight of obligation,
I cou'd—yes, Manlius—I cou'd ask still more.

MANLIUS.
Explain thyself.

REGULUS.
I think I have fulfill'd
The various duties of a citizen;
Nor have I aught beside to do for Rome.
Now, nothing for the public good remains,
Manlius! I recollect I am a father!
My Publius! my Attilia! ah! my friend,
They are—(forgive the weakness of a parent)
To my fond heart, dear as the drops that warm it.
Next to my country they're my all of life;
And, if a weak old man be not deceiv'd,
They will not shame that country.—Yes, my friend,
Young as they are, I think I can perceive
The love of virtue blazes in their souls.
As yet these tender plants are immature,
And ask the fostering hand of cultivation;
Heav'n, in it's wisdom, wou'd not let their father
Accomplish this great work.—To thee, my friend,
The tender parent delegates the trust.
Do not refuse a poor man's legacy;
I do bequeath my orphans to thy love—
If thou wilt kindly take them to thy bosom,
Their loss will be repaid with usury.
O let the father owe his glory to thee,
The children their protection!

MANLIUS.
Regulus,
With grateful joy I do accept the trust:
Oh! I will shield, with jealous tenderness,
The precious blossoms from a blasting world.
In me thy children shall possess a father,
Tho' not as worthy, yet as fond as thee.
The pride be mine to fill their youthful breasts
With every virtue—'twill not cost me much:
I shall have nought to teach, nor they to learn,
But the great history of their god-like sire.

REGULUS.
I will not hurt the grandeur of thy virtue,
By paying thee so poor a thing as thanks.
Now, all is over, and I bless the Gods,
I've nothing more to do.
Enter Publius, in Haste.
O Regulus!

REGULUS.
Say what has happen'd.

PUBLIUS.
Rome is in a tumult—
There's scarce a citizen but runs to arms—
They will not let thee go.

REGULUS.
Is't possible?
Can Rome so far forget her dignity
As to desire this infamous exchange?
I blush to think it!

PUBLIUS.
Ah! not so, my father.
Rome cares not for the peace, nor for th'exchange;
She only wills that Regulus shall stay.

REGULUS.
How, stay? my oath—my faith—my honor!—ah!
Do they forget?

PUBLIUS.
No. Every man exclaims
That neither faith, nor honor, shou'd be kept
With Carthaginian perfidy and fraud.

REGULUS.
Gods! Gods! on what vile principles they reason!
Can guilt in Carthage palliate guilt in Rome,
Or vice in one absolve it in another?
Ah! who hereafter shall be criminal,
If precedents are us'd to justify
The blackest crimes.

PUBLIUS.
Th'infatuated people
Have call'd the Augurs to the sacred fane,
There to determine this momentous point.

REGULUS.
I have no need of Oracles, my son,
Honor's the Oracle of honest men.
I gave my promise, which I will observe
With most religious strictness. Rome, 'tis true,
Had power to chuse the peace, or change of slaves;
But whether Regulus return, or not,
Is his concern, not the concern of Rome.
That was a public, this a private care.
Publius! thy father is not what he was;
I am the slave of Carthage, nor has Rome
Power to dispose of captives not her own.
Guards! let us to the port.—Farewell, my friend;

MANLIUS.
Let me intreat thee stay; for shou'd'st thou go
To stem this tumult of the populace,
They will by force detain thee: then, alas!
Both Regulus and Rome must break their faith.

REGULUS.
What! must I then remain?

MANLIUS.
No, Regulus,
I will not check thy great career of glory:
Thou shalt depart. Mean-while, I go to calm
This wild tumultuous uproar of the people.
The Consular authority shall still them.

REGULUS.
Thy virtue is my safeguard—but—

MANLIUS.
Enough.—
I know thy honor, and trust thou to mine.
I am a Roman, and I feel some sparks
Of Regulus's virtue in my breast.
Tho' fate denies me thy illustrious chains,
I will at least endeavour to deserve them.

Exit.
REGULUS.
How is my country alter'd! how, alas!
Is the great spirit of old Rome extinct.
Restraint and force must now be put in use
To make her virtuous. She must be compell'd
To faith and honor.—Ah! what Publius here?
And dost thou leave so tamely to my friend,
The honor to assist me? Go, my boy,
'Twill make me more in love with chains and death,
To owe them to a son.

PUBLIUS.
I go, my father—
I will, I will obey thee.

REGULUS.
Do not sigh,
It will impede the progress of thy glory.

PUBLIUS.
Yes, I will own that e'en the pangs of death,
Wou'd be less cruel than these agonies.
Yet do not frown austerely on thy son:
His anguish is his virtue. If to conquer
The feelings of my soul were easy to me,
'Twou'd be no merit; do not then defraud
The sacrifice I make thee of it's glory.

Exeunt severally.
Manlius, Attilia.
ATTILIA,
speaking as she enters.
Where is the Consul?—where, oh! where is Manlius?
I come to breathe the voice of mourning to him
To supplicate his mercy, to conjure him
To whisper peace to my afflicted bosom,
And heal the anguish of a wounded spirit.

MANLIUS.
What would the daughter of my noble friend?

ATTILIA,
kneeling.
If ever pity's sweet emotions touch'd thee,—
If ever gentle love assail'd thy breast,—
If ever virtuous friendship fir'd thy soul;—
By the dear names of husband, and of parent—
By all the soft, yet powerful ties of nature;
If e'er thy lisping infants charm'd thine ear,
And waken'd all the father in thy soul—
If e'er thou hop'st to have thy latter days,
Blest by their love and sweeten'd by their duty—
Oh! hear a kneeling weeping wretched daughter,
Who begs, intreats, implores a father's life—
Nor her's alone—but Rome's—his country's father.

MANLIUS
Rise, gentle maid—nay, I conjure thee rise.
Oh! spare this soft subduing eloquence!—
Nay, rise. I shall forget I am a Roman—
Forget the mighty debt I owe my country—
Forget the fame and glory of thy father.
I must conceal this weakness.

Turns from her.
ATILLIA
rises eagerly.
Ah! you weep!
Indulge, indulge my Lord the virtuous softness:
Was ever sight so graceful, so becoming,
As Pity's tear upon the Hero's cheek?

MANLIUS.
No more.—I must not hear thee.

Going.
ATTILIA.
How! not hear me?
You must—you shall—nay, nay return my Lord—
Oh! fly not from me—look upon my woes,
And imitate the mercy of the Gods;
'Tis not their thunder that excites our reverence,
'Tis their mild mercy, and forgiving love.
'Twill add a brighter lustre to thy laurels,
When men shall say, and proudly point Thee out,
“Behold the Consul!—He, who sav'd his friend.”
Oh! what a tide of joy will overwhelm thee!
How I shall envy thee thy glorious feelings!

MANLIUS.
Thy father scorns his liberty and life,
Nor will accept of either, at th'expence
Of honour, virtue, glory, faith and Rome.

ATTILIA.
Think you behold the godlike Regulus
The prey of unrelenting savage foes,
Ingenious only in contriving ill;—
Eager to glut their hunger of revenge
They'll plot such new, unheard of kind of tortures—
Such dreadful, and such complicated vengeance,
As ev'n the Punic annals have not known;—
And as they heap fresh torments on his head,
With horrid exultation they'll applaud
Their curs'd, pernicious genius for destruction.
—Ah! Manlius—now methinks I see my father—
My faithful fancy full of his idea
Presents him to me—mangled, gash'd, and torn—
Stretch'd on the rack in writhing agony—
The torturing pincers tear his quivering flesh,
And the dire murderers view the gaping wounds
With smiles malignant, and with fiend-like rapture—
His groans their music, and his pangs their sport;
—And if they lend some interval of ease,
Some dear-bought intermission, meant to make
The following pang more exquisitely felt,
Th'insulting executioners exclaim
—“Now, Roman! feel the vengeance thou hast scorn'd!”

MANLIUS.
Repress thy sorrows—

ATTILIA.
Ah!—repress my sorrows?—
And can the friend of Regulus advise
His hapless daughter not to mourn his fate?
How cold alas! is friendship when compar'd
To ties of blood—to nature's powerful impulse;
Yes—she asserts her empire in my soul,
'Tis nature pleads—she will—she must be heard;
With warm resistless eloquence she pleads.—
Ah thou art soften'd!—see—the Consul yields—
The feelings triumph—tenderness prevails—
The Roman is subdued—the daughter conquers!

[Catching hold of his Robe]
MANLIUS.
Ah! hold me not—I must not, cannot stay,
The softness of thy sorrow is contagious;
I too may feel when I shou'd only reason.
I dare not hear thee—Regulus and Rome,
The Patriot and the Friend—all, all forbid it.

[Breaks from her and exit.]
Manet ATTILIA.
Oh feeble grasp!—and is he gone, quite gone?
Hold, hold thy empire, reason, firmly hold it,
Or rather quit at once thy feeble throne,
Since thou but serv'st to shew me what I've lost,
To heighten all the horrors that await me;
To summon up a wild distracted croud
Of fatal images, to shake my soul.
To scare sweet peace, and banish hope itself.
Farewell! delusive dreams of joy, farewell!
Come, fell Despair! thou pale-ey'd spectre, come,
For thou shalt be Attilia's inmate now,
And thou shalt grow and twine about her heart,
And she shall be so much enamour'd of thee,
The pageant Pleasure ne'er shall interpose
Her gaudy presence to divide you more.

[Stands in an Attitude of silent Grief.]
Enter LICINIUS.
At length I've found thee—ah my charming maid!
How have I sought thee out with anxious fondness!
Alas! she hears me not.—My best Attilia!
Ah! grief oppresses every gentle sense.
Still, still she hears not—'tis Licinius speaks,
He comes to sooth the anguish of thy spirit,
And hush thy tender sorrows into peace.

ATTILIA.
Who's he that dares assume the voice of love,
And comes unbidden to these dreary haunts;
Steals on the sacred treasury of woe,
And breaks the league Despair and I have made.

LICINIUS.
'Tis one who comes the messenger of Heaven,
To talk of peace, of comfort, and of joy.

ATTILIA.
Didst thou not mock me with the sound of joy?
Thou little know'st the anguish of my soul,
If thou believ'st I ever can again
Admit delusive hope to my sad bosom.
No—I abjure the flatterer and her train.
Let those, who ne'er have been like me deceiv'd,
Embrace the fair fantastic sycophant—
For I alas! am wedded to despair,
And will not hear the sound of comfort more.

LICINIUS.
Cease, cease, my love, this tender voice of woe,
Tho' softer than the dying Cygnet's plaint,
She ever chaunts her most melodious strain
When death and sorrow harmonize her note.

ATTILIA.
Yes—I will listen now with fond delight,
For death and sorrow are my darling themes.
Well!—what hast thou to say of death and sorrow?
Believe me, thou wilt find me apt to listen,
And, if my tongue be slow to answer thee,
Instead of words I'll give thee sighs and tears.

LICINIUS.
I come to dry thy tears, not make them flow,
The Gods once more propitious smile upon us,
Joy shall again await each happy morn,
And ever new delight shall crown the day!
Yes, Regulus shall live—

ATTILIA.
Ah me! what say'st thou?
Alas! I'm but a poor, weak, trembling woman—
I cannot bear these wild extremes of fate—
Then mock me not.—I think thou art Licinius,
The generous lover, and the faithful friend!
I think thou would'st not sport with my afflictions.

LICINIUS.
Mock thy afflictions?—May eternal Jove,
And every power at whose dread shrine we worship,
Blast all the hopes my fond ideas form
Of tender transport in Attilia's love
If I deceive thee! Yes, my beauteous mourner,
Thy father yet shall live—shall live to bless thee—
Shall live to give thee to Licinius' arms.
Oh! we will smooth his downward path of life,
By our kind cares and unremitting love;
And after a long length of virtuous years,
At the last verge of honourable age,
When nature's glimmering lamp goes gently out,
We'll close, together close his eyes in peace—
Together drop the sweetly painful tear—
Then copy out his vertues in our lives.

ATTILIA.
And shall we be so blest? is't possible?
Forgive me, my Licinius, if I doubt thee.
Fate never gave such exquisite delight,
As flattering hope hath imag'd to thy soul.
But how?—Explain this bounty of the Gods.

LICINIUS.
Thou know'st what influence the name of Tribune
Gives it's possessor o'er the people's mind:
That power I have exerted, nor in vain.
All are prepar'd to second my designs:
The plot is ripe.—There's not a man but swears
To keep thy god-like father here in Rome—
To save his life at hazard of his own.

ATTILIA.
By what gradation does my joy ascend!
I thought that if my father had been sav'd
By any means, I had been rich in bliss:
But that he lives, and lives preserv'd by thee,
Is such a prodigality of Fate,
I cannot bear my joy with moderation:
Heaven should have dealt it with a scantier hand,
And not have shower'd such plenteous blessings on me;
They are too great, too flattering to be real;
'Tis some delightful vision, which enchants,
And cheats my senses, weaken'd by misfortune.

LICINIUS.
Ador'd Attilia! now you overpay
A life of love, an age of expectation;
We'll seek thy father, and mean-while, my fair,
Compose and calm thy agitated soul,
And hush it's sweet emotions ere thou seest him.
Pleasure itself is painful in excess,
For joys, like sorrows, in extreme, oppress:
The Gods themselves our pious cares approve,
And to reward our virtue crown our love.

Exeunt.