 | Horace |  |
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?
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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:
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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.
| Horace | |