 | Horace |  |
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:
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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.
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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?
| Horace | |