University of Virginia Library

Actus Secundus.

Scena Prima.

Horace. Curiace.
Curiace.
I see your merits sway the publick voice;
Rome durst rely upon no other choice:
Unto your Valours this proud Town alone
Dares trust her cause and reputation;
And whilst she only on your Arms relies,
With one sole House braves all our Families.
We shall believe, since you the weight must bear,
Save Horace Sons, that there no Romans are:
This choice three Houses might have rais'd to fame,
Have giv'n each a high and glorious name,
And that Renown which yours alone must be,
Had been enough to have eterniz'd three.
Nor can I, since by Fortune and my flame
I in your House so interested am;
But I must share, as much as in me lies,
Your Fam'lies glory in this enterprize.
Yet the respect I to my Country bear,
Mixes that pleasure with an honest fear.
The War has rais'd your name unto that height,
I fear for Alba, and foresee her fate.
Since you must fight, her interest must bow,
Fate has in choosing you determin'd so.
It is decreed, I see you must o'recome,
And I conclude my self a slave to Rome.

Horace.
You should Rome pity, not for Alba fear,
In her ill choice did you consider her;
In Rome it doubtless a great blindness is,
To have such choice, and choose so far amiss.
Of her brave Sons a thousand worthier be
So brave a quarrel to maintain, than we;
Yet though the Combat promise me a Shroud,
That I am chosen makes me justly proud;
And the assurance of my soul is such,
As from my little Valour hopes for much.
Nor can I (be what will th'intent of Fate)
Conclude my self a slave to Alba yet.
Rome has o'revalu'd my desert, but I
Will amply justifie it all, or dye.
“Who'l dye, or conquer, seldom conquer'd is.
That brave despair but rarely perishes;
Rome (fall what will) shall never subject bow,
Till my last groans proclaim my overthrow.

Curiace.
Alas! in that my state compassion needs,
What Alba covets most, my friendship dreads.
Wretched extreams! Alba must be enslav'd,
Or by thy noble persons ruine sav'd.
She must or fail of her ambitious aim,
Or through thy blood wade to her lustful claim:
Which shall I pray for? what success attend?
This combat must in my affliction end.
I shall on either side have tears to shed,
And on both sides my prayers are limited.

Horace.
What would you be my enemy so far,
To mourn me falling in my Country's War?
That noble death allures a generous heart,
Tears do but injure his surviving part,
And I could falling kiss my Destiny,
Should Rome receive no greater loss than me.

Curiace.
And yet allow your friends their friendly care
In this brave death they to be pitied are;
The honour's yours, but theirs the loss, and what
Swells your renown, makes them unfortunate.
We part with all, when a true friend we lose.
But here comes Flavian, sure he brings me news.
Has Alba yet made choice of her three men?

Scena Secunda.

Horace. Curiace. Flavian.
Flavian.
I come to tell you.

Curiace.
Say, who are they then?

Flavian.
They've pitch'd on you, and your two Brothers.

Curiace.
Who?

Flavian.
On your two Brothers they have pitch'd, and you.
But why that look? why that contracted brow?
Do you alone th'election disallow?

Curiace.
No, but it does surprize me, I confess,
I think my self unworthy such a grace.

Flavian.
Shall the Dictator know you entertain
The quarrel coldly? for I must be plain,
This carriage does me something too surprize.

Curiace.
Tell him, that maugre Love, and all the ties,
Unite our Families, we three will fight
The three Horatii in Alba's right.

Flavian.
With them! tis much in a few words you say.

Curiace.
Carry my answer back, and leave us pray.

Scena Tertia.

Horace. Curiace.
Curiace.
Henceforth I see Heav'n, Earth, and Hell contend,
And whet their fury; which should most offend;
That Gods, and Men, Devils, and Fate prepare,
At once t'invade us with a general War;
And more t'afflict us in the state we are,
The Fates, and Devils, Gods, and Men, I dare:
Since all of dire in Heav'n, and Hell contain'd,
Weigh'd with this honour is to be disdain'd.

Horace.
Fate that expands the lists of honour, does
Brave matter to our constancy propose:
He has combin'd his mischief to make one,
May with our valour hold proportion,
And as he sees no common men we are;
So he no common fortune does prepare.
To fight an enemy for the publick good,
And with a stranger hazard blood for blood;
The poor effect of a mean vertue is,
Thousands have don't, and thousands may do this;
For a man's Country 'tis so brave to die,
Who would not court so bright a Destiny?
But to the publick when we sacrifice
The thing we most do love, we most do prize;
To fight with a man's second self, his Friend,
And strive to kill him that would us defend,
A Wifes dear Brother, and a Sisters Love,
All ties, and all relations to remove,
And in our Country's Cause t'encounter him,
Whose blood we would with our own lives redeem:
This is a vertue none can boast, but we,
Few in this glory will our Rivals be:
And few mens hearts, so brave a courage own,
As dare pretend to such a high renown.

Curiace.
'Tis true, our names shall now immortal grow,
Th'occasion's fair, and we must seize it too,
Of a rare vertue we shall presidents be;
Yet there is something of barbarity
Mixt with your noble temper: few there are,
Even of those who most can do, and dare,
Would glory in this case, or choose to buy
At such a price, their immortality.
And whatsoever honour may redound,
'Twere better be obscure, than so renown'd;
For my part I dare say, and you might see't,
I made no very long debate of it.
Friendship, nor Love, nor our Alliance cou'd
Suspend my honour, nor corrupt my blood.
And since our Alba by this choice does shew,
She values me as high as Rome does you;
I think to do as much, and fight as home
In her behalf, as you shall do for Rome.
My heart is good enough, but yet I feel
I wear humanity about me still.
I see your honour in my ruine lies,
And that my glory in your fall must rise:
Ready t'espouse the Sister, I must kill
The Brother; and the blood I mix with, spill:
I know that by my Country's int'rest, I
Am sentenc'd to this sad necessity:
Thus though this task I fearless undertake,
My heart's o'recharg'd, and I with horror shake;
I do commiserate my own distress,
And envy those the War has laid in peace.
Not that I would decline the thing one jot;
For though it move me, if affrights me not:
I hug the honour I receive: but yet,
I must lament, what I must lose by it.
And since your Rome so strict in honour is,
As to pretend a vertue beyond this:
Thank Heav'n I am no Roman, since thereby
I may retain yet some humanity.

Horace.
Since you no Roman are, strive to put on
Resolves may make you worthy to be one;
And if you'l have your vertue rival mine,
Let it in equal resolution shine.
The constancy I boast of does permit
None of these weaknesses to mix with it.
And 'twere a stain to honour, when we yet
The lists scarce enter, should we now retreat.
Unto its Zenith our misfortunes got
I face it unconcern'd, and tremble not,
Against who e're Rome shall my Arms employ,
I blindly entertain the grace with joy.
The glory that attends, commands like these,
Should banish in us all reluctancies:
And who besides his Country in this case
Considers ought, is womanish, and base.
Our Country's sacred right empales at once,
All whatsoever obligations.
Rome has made choice of me; nor is it fit,
When she commands, further t'examine it.
With the same joy, I on my wedding night
Claspt fair Sabina, Il'e her Brother fight:
And to be short, since such must be our lot,
Alba has nam'd you, and I know you not.

Curiace.
I know you still, and in that knowledge feel
A sorrow wounding as your sharpest steel;
But never knew before I must confess,
A vertue so severe, as you profess:
It like our ills, doth in its Zenith fit,
And I admire, but shall not practise it.

Horace.
Oh! be not good perforce on any score,
But since the whining way affects you more,
Enjoy at liberty that bliss alone:
See where my Sister comes t'assist your moan,
I'le in to yours, and fit her mind to this,
To bear her self still like whose Wife she is;
To love you still, though by your hand I dye,
And bear her ills with Roman constancy.

Scena Quarta.

Horace. Curiace. Camilla.
Horace.
Have you heard Sister with the Alban Bands
How high your Servants reputation stands?

Camilla.
Brother, I've heard too much; how soon alas!
Has my false fortune chang'd her flattering face?

Horace.
Arm you with courage, such as may declare
On all events, that you my Sister are;
And if your Curiace through my ruine come,
Triumphant as a Conqueror back to Rome:
Receive him not with an averted face,
May speak the memory of my disgrace:
But as a man whose Valour prompts him to
Such things as Tyrant Honour bids him do,
That serves his Country nobly, and does prove
By generous acts his title to your love.
Compleat, as if I liv'd, your Nuptial tye;
But if this Sword conclude his Destiny,
Receive my Victory at the same rate,
Without reproach for your brave Servants Fate.
I see y'are sad, your eyes grow big with tears,
Pray entertain him with your feminine fears.
Now quarrel Heav'n, Earth, and Fate, but when
The Combat's past, no more remembrance then.
Speaking to Curiace.
I'le leave you but a moment, then we go,
Like friend with friend, to fight it foe to foe.

Scena Quinta.

Curiace. Camilla.
Camilla.
Wilt thou then go my soul? has such a shower
Wept by Camilla, no prevailing power?
Does brutish Honour rule thy heart, above
The vertuous interest of commanding Love?

Curiace.
Alas it is too plain, I see that I
Or by my grief, or Horace Sword must dye:
To this brave work I as unwilling go,
As Malefactors to the Wrack would do:
I curse my name a thousand times that has
Procur'd my merit such a fatal grace.
I curse my self, and fortune, and I hate
My treach'rous valour, since alone by that
My person's so considerable made,
And my despairing flame does Jove invade,
It dares to challenge Heav'n as unjust;
And I lament us both, but go I must.

Camilla.
Oh no! I know thee better, now I see
Thou dost desire that I should sue to thee,
That the legitimate power which I claim
May to thy Country justifie thy fame.
Thy name's too great already, and thy acts
Have paid long since what Alba now exacts.
None better has maintain'd this quarrel, none
Has sacrific'd more lives, than thou hast done.
Thy name can rise no higher than it is,
Permit some other now t'ennoble his.

Curiace.
Shall I anothers brows incircled see,
With those immortal Laurels due to me?
Or this reproach from my brave Country hear,
That she had triumph'd, had I fought for her?
And whilst my valour's charm'd by Love, shall I
Blot my brave actions now with infamy?
No! since I thus am honour'd, Alba shall
By this sole arm's success, or rise, or fall.
I wear her fate, and this accompt I'le give,
To dye with honour, or with honour live.

Camilla.
Does honour blind thee so, thou wilt not see,
How poorly thou betray'st my love, and me?

Curiace.
My Love in this, necessity obeys,
And Sweet, e're I was yours, I Alba's was.

Camilla.
But in thy Country's quarrel to destroy
A Friend, a Brother, and thy Sisters joy,
Are things methinks, vertue should startle at.

Curiace.
Alas! Camilla in this sad estate,
We have no will, and in this hateful choice
Of Rome, and Alba, friendship has no voice.
Brother, and Friend, names so belov'd before,
Have lost their harmony, and are no more.

Camilla.
Wilt thou not bring me home Horatio's head,
And claim my person for the noble deed?

Curiace.
I dare not think on't, thus begirt with wo,
Hopeless to love, is all that I can do.
But my dear soul, you weep!

Camilla.
How can I choose,
When he I love does that I live refuse?
And when our Hymen does his Taper light,
Thou with thine own hand dost extinguish it.
Thy cruel heart, my ruine does decree,
And says it loves, when it doth murther me.

Curiace.
In lovers tears, what eloquence doth flow!
And beauty most prevails, when drest in wo,
At this sad sight my heart is tender grown,
I stagger in my resolution.
Assault no more my glory with your fears,
But let me save my vertue from your tears.
I feel she faints, and ill defends her place,
The more I'm yours, the less I'm Curiace.
Nor can a vertue ne're so firm, and strong,
Having with friendship combated so long;
And in that fight already weary grown,
Conquer at once Love, and compassion.
Go! hate me! shed no more vain tears for me!
Thus to your love, I oppose injury:
I better can resist your anger far,
And to deserve it more, I here declare,
I love you not. Call up your vengeance now,
And shoot me dead from your offended brow.
Are you insensible to a man ingrate?
Punish my base Apostasie with hate.
I love you not. Let that provoke your wrath!
Would you yet more? then I renounce my Faith.
Insolent vertue! to whose rigour, I
Am sacrific'd in this necessity,
Canst thou no more resist her tears, but by
The wretched help of such a vicious lye?

Camilla.
Commit no worse, and by the Gods w'adore,
Instead of hating thee, I'le love thee more.
Ingrate I'le hug thee if thy valour's pride
Court not the title of a Fratricide.
Why was I born a Roman? why not thou?
Then I with Laurels might adorn thy brow.
I should not then restrain, but prompt thee on,
And do for thee, as I've for Horace done.
To day alas! my vows I blindly made
Against thee sinning, when for him I pray'd.
See where he comes. Love I am lost if she
Prevail no more with him, than I with thee!

Scena Sexta.

Horace. Curiace. Sabina. Camilla.
Curiace.
Ye Gods! Sabina too! is't not enough,
Camilla's here to try my vertues proof;
But you must bring along my Sister too,
To try what both their interests can do?
When having conquer'd your vast spirit, she
Must come, and try to do as much for me?

Sabina.
No! Brother no! I come not to that end,
I only to embrace, and part, pretend.
Your Blood's too true, fear nothing mean from me,
I bring no tears t'offend your constancy.
Nay! should I see this dire misfortune shake,
Or startle either, I would him forsake.
Yet give me leave to offer one request,
That may become my double interest.
I from the Victors Sword will wipe offence,
And reconcile honour to innocence.
Make it unto its native lustre rise,
And lastly make you lawful enemies.
In me alone it is you are ally'd,
When I am dead that knot will be unty'd.
Break then that Bond, that does your Arms oppose,
And since y'are bound in honour to be foes,
Purchase by me a priviledge to hate,
'Tis Rome and Alba's will, you must obey't.
Take one of you a life that I despise,
In this sick brest commence your cruelties;
And since my heart's divided in my wo,
Let your unpitying Steel divide it too.
The other way revenge Sabina's fall,
So shall your Combat be approv'd by all;
And one at least a just revenge may take,
Or for a Wifes, or for a Sisters sake.
But 'twould perhaps eclipse your Glories light
In a less Quarrel, should such Heroes fight.
'T must be your Country's Cause, and if you were
Less to your selves, less would your acts appear.
You must be Victims to your Country's lust;
Proceed then to a sacrifice so just:
Strike through the Sister at the Brother's life,
And wound the Husband, whilst you kill the Wife.
Begin ye Tigers, in this life of mine,
The Sacrifice you in your own design.
You in this famous combat must become,
A foe to Alba, you a foe to Rome:
But I oblig'd by Birth, and by my flame,
Unto them both an adversary am.
And must I be reserv'd, only to see,
The triumph of a hateful Victory?
A triumph where the Blood I prize so dear,
Must trim the Laurels of the Triumpher?
Can I betwixt you then govern my heart,
And play at once a Wifes and Sisters part?
And whilst my soul the Conquest does abhor,
With open arms imbrace the Conqueror?
No, e're that happen, Death shall close these eyes
From triumphs mixt with my Friends Obsequies.
My ruine shall prevent it, and what you
Withdraw your hands from, my own hands shall do.
Go on then Monsters! who your rage withstands?
I shall find means enough to force your hands,
Which shall no sooner be prepar'd to kill,
But with this brest I'le intercept your Steel:
And though you now deny me, force your blows,
To send my soul unto its wisht repose.

Horace.
Dear Wife!

Curiace.
Dear Sister!

Camilla.
Courage you prevail.

Sabina.
Your bosoms groan forth sighs, your cheeks grow pale.
What frights you thus? are these the men on whom,
The stakes are laid of Alba, and of Rome?

Horace.
Wherein Sabina have I done amiss,
That can deserve such a revenge as this?
How has my Honour injur'd thee, that thou
With all thy power assault'st my vertue so?
To have astonish'd me let it suffice,
And let me finish this brave enterprize.
Thy love has rais'd a conflict in my brest;
But Wife insult not in the pow'r thou hast.
Go, strive no more for conquest, 'tis to me,
T'have suffer'd this debate, an infamy.
Permit me, that I may with honour dye.

Sabina.
You need not fear, your succours are so nigh.

Scena Septima.

Horace the Father. Horace. Curiace. Sabina. Camilla.
Horace the Father.
Is this a time in Love parleys to spend,
When Rome and Alba do your Arms attend!
When Blood should weep, do you converse with tears!
Go! leave these Women to their womens fears.
Their griefs (my Sons) too subtil are for you,
And by contagion will your hearts subdue;
Nor can you but by flight evade their powers.

Sabina.
Doubt them not (Sir) they'r worthy to be yours,
And slighting all our prayers, resolv'd prepare
For acts becoming him whose Sons they are:
But if our tears have soft'ned them, we do
Thus give you scope to fortifie them new.
Come Sister, let us go, we weep in vain,
Tears are too weak to conquer bruitish man.
To our sole refuge, black despair, we fly,
Go Tygers then, and fight, whilst we go die.

Scena Octava.

Horace the Father. Horace. Curiace.
Horace.
Confine (Sir) I beseech you to the House
These foolish Women, that they break not loose;
For if they should, their over-fondness might,
With cries, and tears perhaps disturb our fight,
And make the cens'ring world believe that we
Our selves were of the vile conspiracy.
This honour we should purchase then too dear,
If once suspected of so base a fear.

Horace the Father.
Leave that to me, and go, your Brothers stay,
And now your duty to your Countries pay.

Curiace.
How should I part, or in what method take—

Horace the Father.
Ah! do not tempt my grief, for vertues sake;
My voice wants terms t'enflame your noble brest,
And with perplexed thoughts my heart's opprest.
My tears swell up, to force their tender gates,
Do your devoire, and leave th'event to fates.

SONG.

CHORUS.