 | Horace |  |
Scena Tertia.
Horace the Father. Camilla.Horace the Father.
Daughter 'tis now no time to weep, and in
This shine of Honour, such a show's ill seen.
Domestick losses we unjustly prize,
When they procure us publick Victories.
Rome triumphs over Alba, and 'tis fit,
Unto that single good, all ills submit.
You in your Servant lose a man, no more;
A loss that Rome can easily restore.
After this Victory, what Roman bloud,
Of such a match will not be justly proud?
This shine of Honour, such a show's ill seen.
Domestick losses we unjustly prize,
When they procure us publick Victories.
Rome triumphs over Alba, and 'tis fit,
Unto that single good, all ills submit.
You in your Servant lose a man, no more;
A loss that Rome can easily restore.
After this Victory, what Roman bloud,
Of such a match will not be justly proud?
I'le go inform Sabina of what's past,
The news to her no doubt will bitter taste;
And her three Brothers, by a Husband slain,
Will give her juster reason to complain.
But yet I hope by gentle ways t'appease
Those sorrows, which like fluctuating Seas,
Do often overwhelm the noblest mind;
And that her prudence with her courage joyn'd,
Will make that gen'rous love rule in her heart,
Due to the worthy Victors brave desert.
I'th' interim conquer your effeminate grief,
And if he come, receive our Roman Chief,
With such a constant brow as may declare,
How worthy of him you his Sister are;
And by your noble carriage make it good,
That in one Womb, Heav'n form'd you of one Blood.
The news to her no doubt will bitter taste;
And her three Brothers, by a Husband slain,
Will give her juster reason to complain.
But yet I hope by gentle ways t'appease
Those sorrows, which like fluctuating Seas,
Do often overwhelm the noblest mind;
And that her prudence with her courage joyn'd,
Will make that gen'rous love rule in her heart,
Due to the worthy Victors brave desert.
I'th' interim conquer your effeminate grief,
And if he come, receive our Roman Chief,
With such a constant brow as may declare,
How worthy of him you his Sister are;
And by your noble carriage make it good,
That in one Womb, Heav'n form'd you of one Blood.
| Horace | |