Horace :: :: University of Virginia Library

Horace

Cotton, Charles (1630-1687)

HORACE,

Actus Quintus.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

Actus Quintus.

Scena Prima.

Horace the Father. Horace.
Horace the Father.
Let us from this sad spectacle retire,
Heav'ns never-sleeping justice to admire,
Which, when we swell to insolence, knows how
To scourge our pride, and lay our glories low.
Heav'n sorrow ever with our joy combines,
Sows seeds of frailty in the noblest minds,

And seldom does our bravest actions crown,
With an unblemish'd and a true renown.
Camilla did offend, nor do I wear
These clouds of sorrow in my face for her;
I think my self to be lamented more,
And more than her, alas! I thee deplore.
I do bewail my own sinister fate
To have a Daughter so degenerate;
And thee for having by misfortune dy'd
Thy noble Sword in such a Parricide.
Not that I do thy heat or justice blame,
Yet, I could wish thou hadst escap'd the shame:
Her crime (though worthy death) had better far
Been spar'd, than thou her executioner.

Horace.
My life, and death, Sir, in your sentence lie,
I thought that blow due to Romes injury:
But if that zeal do criminal appear,
If I eternal brands of shame must wear,
And if my arm be infamous become,
With one sole word you may pronounce my doom.
Take back that blood which my unworthy hand
Has by a coward act so basely stain'd.
I could not suffer in your vertuous Race
A crime that might your noble name disgrace:
Nor should you with an over-partial eye
Suffer this blemish in your Family.
In acts where honour suffers 'tis discern'd,
That such a Father as you are's concern'd.
T'excuse ill Sons, even Fathers should forbear,
Whilst they conceal our faults, they faulty are;
And his own fame that Father little moves,
Who spares that guilt his vertue disapproves.

Horace the Father.
Fathers sometimes from harsh extreams forbear,
And often spare their Sons themselves to spare.
Our age leans on their youthful strength, and spares
Them, since in them we must be sufferers.
I look upon thee with a diff'rent eye
From that thou censur'st thine own vertue by:

And though thy reputation blemish'd stand,
I know—but see the Guards, the King's at hand.

Scena Secunda.

Tullius. Valerius. Horace the Father, and Guards.
Horace the Father.
Great Sir, you do your Servant too much grace,
I blush to see you in so mean a place.
Permit me that in gratitude thus low.—

Tullius.
No Father rise, and let your merit know
I pay in this the least of what is due
From vertuous Princes to such men as you.
Such services pretend to all whate're
Subjects can merit or their Kings confer.
Valerius word was past; nor could I be
Just to my self, till I had set him free.
I heard from him; nor did I doubt before,
With what a noble constancy you bore
Your brave Sons deaths, and know that to a soul
So fortifi'd as yours, so right, and whole;
What comforts I could bring would only prove
Unnecessary complements of Love:
But now that I have heard what a sad fate
Does on your conqu'ring Sons brave valour wait,
And that his zeal to th'publick cause has led
His sudden fury to commit a deed,
Deprives you of an onely Daughter; then
Whilst I consider the most brave are men,
I must confess I cannot choose but fear
How your great heart, so great a blow can bear.

Horace the Father.
Sir, with a troubled, but a patient sence.

Tullius.

A brave effect of your experience.
Many by living long have learnt to know
That happiness is but a step to woe:
But few apply that knowledge to the best,
And most mens vertues truckle, when opprest.

If in your King's compassion you can find
A comfort to th'afflictions of your mind,
Believe it great as them, and that I do
With the same friendship love, and pity you.

Valerius.
Since, mighty Sir, into the hands of Kings
Heav'n delegates the Law to order things,
And that within their sacred power lies
Reward for vertue, punishment for vice:
Permit a loyal Subject in this case,
To prompt that justice your compassion stays,
And say you seem this murther to forget,
Whilst you lament, and do not punish it.
Permit.—

Horace the Father.
What! that Romes conquering Champion die,
And have his service paid with infamy?

Tullius.
Let him say on, Horatio, and forbear,
I who am to determine, ought to hear;
And do not fear but I will do you right,
It is at once my duty, and delight.
When justice even, and unbiass'd flows,
She then a Monarch for a Monarch shows.
Divinity shines round about him then,
Above the common race of common men:
And that which makes me most commiserate
The wretched fortune of your sad estate,
Is, to hear justice clamour'd on your Son,
Who has for Rome so brave a service done.

Valerius.

Permit then, justest Monarch, that in me
All vertuous men appeal for equity.
'Tis not, alas! that our repining hearts
Envy those honours, crown his brave deserts;
All you can give, short of his merit fall,
His glorious actions shine above them all.
Add new, and greater still to those before,
We all are willing to contribute more:
But let him since he could obscure his fame
By such an act of horror, and of shame,

At once for merit, and a crime so high,
A Victor triumph, an Offender dye.
Check his wild rage, and rescue those remain
Of Romes brave off-spring, if you mean to reign.
Your peoples ruine, or their safety lies,
Or in his Pardon, or his Sacrifice.
Few Romans ever could in Alba boast
Of Alba's loss, but they in Alba lost
Some such relation, as might force their eyes
To private tears in publick Victories.
If such a vertuous sorrow then become
Criminal to the interest of Rome;
If his success oblige you to dispence,
And priviledge so great an insolence;
Who will this barbarous Conquerour forbear,
Whose fury would not his own Sister spare;
Nor yet excuse the sorrow all approve
In a chaste Virgin ravish'd of her Love?
Rome, though she triumphs, is Horatio's slave,
He has the sovereign Pow'r to kill, or save;
Nor have we now a longer time to live,
Than as he's pleas'd to sentence, or forgive.

I could to Romes concernment add how base,
Mean, and below a man, the action was;
I could demand to have the murther'd Maid,
His Valours triumph, in your presence laid:
You then would see the yet warm Crimson rise,
And blushing blame a Brother's cruelties.
So sad a sight no Advocate would need,
Her Youth and Beauty would for justice plead:
But I abhor in such a case as this,
All ways that bear a shew of Artifice.
To morrow you have set apart to pay
Your Vows to Heav'n for this victorious day:
And can you think those Deities, that bear
Thunder t'avenge the innocent sufferer,
Will deign t'accept of Incense from a hand
In a black Parricide so lately stain'd?

So great a Sacriledge would draw on you
The vengeance that to him alone is due.
Look on him then as one whom Heav'n does hate,
And that wherein he has been fortunate,
Romes stars have more by their own influence done,
Than by the Valour of their Champion:
Since the same Gods who did his Conquest crown,
Permit him thus to blemish his renown;
And in one day, after exploits so high,
To claim a Triumph, and deserve to dye.

This, Sir, is that your judgment must decide,
Rome here has suffer'd the first Parricide,
The consequence, and Heaven's displeasure, are
The things Religion teaches us to fear;
Preserve your people from his insolence,
And appease Heav'n by cens'ring his offence.

Tullius.
Horace, make your defence.

Horace.

Sir to what end,
Should I an act you know so well defend?
Your judgment's Law, though it pronounce me dead.
'Gainst Kings results, Offenders vainly plead,
And the most innocent the Sun can show,
When Kings conclude them criminal, are so.
Nay, 'tis a crime t'excuse our selves to those
Who by their title, may our lives dispose;
And when they cut us off we must believe
It is because we are unfit to live.
Pronounce my doom then Sir, I will obey't;
The life that others love, I ought to hate:
Nor do I think Valerius too severe,
He prosecutes his Mistriss murtherer.
I do with him against my self conspire,
He would my death, and 'tis my own desire;
With this distinction, that I think by that
To keep my honour in its present height;
Whereas he thinks thereby to blot that name
I would perpetuate to living Fame.

We rarely meet occasions, Sir, wherein
A hearts whole stock of courage may be seen:
Valour acts more, or less, as time doth fit,
And as occasion serves or hinders it,
And manly, or effeminate, appears
At the discretion of the censurers.
The common sort, whose understandings be
By ignorance limited to what they see,
Proportion force by its effects, and guess
At Valour, as effects are more or less;
Expecting vainly, that who wonders do,
Blest once by Fortune, should do always so.
After an act illustriously bright,
All that seem less darken that actions light.
Men look we always should in every place
Perform our actions with an equal grace;
Without considering in th'occasion
What could have been, or more, or better done;
Nor seeing that in actions of less fame,
Th'occasion's less, the vertue still the same.
Great names by this injustice are defac'd,
Mens first Acts honours perish in their last:
And who once reaches a supream renown,
If he will hold it there, must there sit down.

I shall not boast what honour I have got,
Your self, great Sir, saw my three Combats fought:
But 'twill be hard ever again to find
An opportunity of such a kind,
To crown my Valours worth with a success
That must not after these exploits go less.
So that to give my Fame immortal breath,
I have no way, but by immediate death.
I should have dy'd before, nor liv'd so long;
I've liv'd already to my Glory's wrong.
A man like me perceives his name decays,
When but in danger of the least disgrace;
And my own hand e're this had clear'd the doubt,
But my blood's yours, and dare not sally out,

Without your leave: Sir, your allowance must
Precede that action, else it were unjust.
Rome wants no generous Warriors, there are those,
When I am gone, will fight her bravest foes
As well as I have done, and pluck fresh boughs
Of greener Laurel to adorn her brows.

Then with an useless man (great Sir) dispence,
And if my acts deserve a recompence,
Let this be it, that with this conqu'ring Arm,
Still with the vigour of late action warm,
I sacrifice my self to my own fame,
Without a mention of my Sisters name.

Scena Tertia.

Tullius. Valerius. Horace the Father. Horace. Sabina and Julia.
Sabina.

Oh hear her Sir, in whose afflicted mind
A Wifes and Sisters sorrows are combin'd;
Who desolate at your sacred feet, in tears
Laments her Race, and for her Husband fears.
Not that I would by Artifice withdraw
A guilty man from the offended Law;
Use him like one, maugre his Victories,
But the brave Criminal in me chastise.
Let my unhappy blood his forfeit pay,
The Victim's still the same, nor can you say
Your justice is by pity overcome,
Whilst I his dearer part, abide your doom.
His matchless love makes it appear he lives
In his own person less, than in his Wives:
And he, if I be sacrific'd, thereby
A sadder death, than in himself, shall dye.
The death I beg, and which I must obtain,
Will finish mine, but aggravate his pain.

Behold Sir, here th'excesses of my woe,
And the sad state my life's reduc't unto.
How can I without horror e're embrace
A man whose Sword has murther'd all my race;
And without wickedness a Husband hate,
For his brave Service to his Prince and State?
By death, then Sir, preserve me from the Crime
Either of loving, or not loving him.
In this extremity I shall embrace
The heaviest sentence for the greatest grace,
I soon, alas! with this weak arm could do
The thing for which I do so humbly sue:
But Death will be more welcome, if thereby
I may redeem my Husbands infamy:
If by my blood I may those Deities,
His severe vertue may have mov'd, appease,
Atone Camilla's angry Ghost, and save
To Rome a man so fortunate and brave.

Horace the Father speaking to the King.

I that defence Sir then must undertake,
My Son and Daughter unconcern'd forsake;
They with Valerius side, and are all three
Combin'd together in conspiracy
Against that little blood does yet remain
From War and Ruine, to restore my name.
Speaking to Sabina.
Thou who by fruitless sorrows, which oppose
The duty that a Wife her Husband owes,
Thy Husband would'st forsake, and desperate,
Accompany thy Brothers in their Fate:
Go rather, and consult their generous Ghosts;
'Tis true, their lives by Horace hand they lost:
But 'twas in Alba's quarrel that they dy'd,
And they in that are fully satisfi'd.

Since Heav'n destin'd Alba for a slave,
(If there remain remembrance in the Grave)
They less repine at their mishap and wounds,
Being the glory unto us redounds.
Thy frantick sorrow they will all disclaim,
Thy sighs, and tears, will disapprove, and blame,
And will condemn the horror thou putst on,
For such a Husband has so bravely done.
Sabina be their Sister, dry your tears,
And do your duty, as they have done theirs.
Speaking to the King.
Valerius animates himself in vain,
Against this noble Hero to complain.
A sudden passion in the course of time
Was never yet reputed for a Crime;
Rather than punishment, it merits praise
When vertue does that sudden passion raise,
To love even to Idolatry our foes,
And curse our Country for their overthrows:
These are call'd Crimes, these the offences were,
He could not even in his Sister spare.
His love to Rome, and her concerns alone
Prompted his hand to execution.
Had not his Countries love tempted his spleen,
He at this instant innocent had been.
How strangely do I talk! what was't I meant
To say he had been; he is innocent:
Or Sir, I had with my own hand e're this
Punish'd the forfeit, had he done amiss;
I should have made the sovereign pow'r known,
That Nature gives a Father o're his Son.
Sir, I love honour, nor can brook disgrace,
Much less a Crime unpunish'd in my Race.
[pointing to Valerius.

Of which I only shall his witness need,
He can resolve you what my rage decreed,
When (ign'rant yet of one half of the fight)
I thought Rome ruin'd in his shameful flight.
I wonder who bids him busie his cares
About my private Family-affairs?
I wonder whence the priviledge he draws,
Without my leave to plead my Daughters cause?
Or by what right does he an int'rest claim,
Where I her Father unoffended am?
But 'tis objected as a politick care,
That others may the like misfortune share.
Sir, we are only jealous of the shame
That in particular concerns our name;
And letting others infamies alone,
Do only blush at those which are our own.
Turning to Valerius.
Thou may'st Valerius weep before his face,
He's only angry at the Crimes on's Race:
None, save those of his blood, can blast those boughs
Of living Laurel that adorn his brows.
Ye sacred wreaths, that Envy wishes dead,
You, who from thunder have secur'd his head;
Will you that sacred head abandon now,
Unto a despicable Hangman's blow?
Will ye, O Romans, on a day like this,
See and permit the bloody Sacrifice
Of that victorious Champion; but for whom,
And his brave Valour, Rome had been no Rome?
And suffer here a Roman to defame
With accusations his illustrious name!
Valerius say, where would'st thou have him dye,
What Scene is proper for his Tragedy?
Within these Walls, where still the people raise
High Acclamations to his Valours praise?

Or in the Camp yet fuming with a flood
Of the late conquer'd Curiatiis blood?
Or else amongst the Alban Heroes Tombs?
Sure that place worst the Tragedy becomes.
That honourable Field that witnesses
At once his prowess and our brave success.
Thou canst not possibly choose out a place,
To be the Theatre of his disgrace,
Wherein his noble conquests will not rise
In glory, to reproach your cruelties.
The Camp, the Lifts, within, without the Town,
All places eccho with his high renown.
All things oppose, and all men disapprove
The vain attempts of thy unjuster Love,
That would with blood so Roman, and so pure,
The glory of so bright a day obscure.
Alba her self that object cannot see,
And Rome with tears will stay that Tragedy.
Speaking to the King.
But Sir, your justice will prevent that doom,
You understand the interests of Rome.
What he has done he yet may do again,
And once more may her liberty maintain;
Give nothing to my Age, Sir, in this cafe.
To day I Father of four Children was,
Of which three in Rome's Quarrel buried are,
One I have left, reserve him, Sir, for her.
Rob not this City by his Sacrifice
Of that defence which in his Valour lies;
And give me your permission, that I may
Direct to him, what I have left to say.
Speaking to Horace.
Horatio do not think the common bruit
Can raise, or lessen a brave man's repute.

The rabble ever do delight in noise,
But in a trice, change their inconstant voice:
And the renown they give us bears no date,
But perishes as illegitimate.
It is for Kings, great ones, for souls that are
Advanc'd above the common pitch by far,
To censure vertue, to discern, and know
The noble spirits from the mean and low.
From them alone a true renown proceeds,
And they alone record illustrious deeds.
Do always like thy self, thy glory then
Shall live, and flourish amongst worthy men;
Although a less occasion may perchance
Abuse short-sighted vulgar ignorance.
Abhor thy life no more, but live, at least
For mine, thy Kings, and Countries interest.
Live, Romes opposers bravely to oppose,
And fight her Battels with her bravest foes.

Sir, I have said too much, though the affair
May well excuse a Father in his care.
I have pronounc'd the general sence of Rome,
And now expecting stay your final doom.

Valerius.
Sir give me leave.—

Tullius.

Valerius no more,
I yet retain all you have said before,
And have consider'd every circumstance,
Reason, and word, that serves to prove th'offence.

This bloody fact committed in despight
Of Law, and Justice, almost in our sight,
Violates Nature, nay doth higher rise,
With humane rage to wound the Deities;
And sudden passions that such crimes produce,
For facts like this, are but a weak excuse.
Our most indulgent Laws herein speak high,
And by their censure he deserves to die.
If by another way, and less severe,
We do consider the offender here,

His crime, though inexcusable, proceeds
From the same Sword and Arm have done those deeds;
By whose effects Rome bravely overcame,
And I a King of two great people am.
The double Crown on Romes Imperial Head,
In favour of his life does highly plead:
But for his Valour, I who now do sway
A two-fold Scepter, had been forc'd t'obey;
And where I sit a double Monarch Crown'd,
Had been a Captive made, subdu'd, and bound,
Many good Subjects in their Countries Wars
Can only serve their Princes by their pray'rs.
All men may love their Kings, but every one
Cannot secure their States as he has done.
The art, and power to establish Thrones,
Are vertues Heaven gives few private ones.
Such Servants are the Nerves, and strength of Kings,
The Props of Kingdoms, and the glorious things
They do and suffer in their Countries Cause,
Seats them above the censure of the Laws.
Let them be silent then, and here let Rome
Forbear to utter an ungrateful doom
On an offence she saw before, when yet
She had no name, her Romulus commit;
In her Deliverer she may forbear
The fault she could in her rash Founder spare.

Live then brave Souldier, spirit too sublime,
Thy vertue sets thy glory 'bove thy Crime.
Since generosity th'offence did make,
Th'effect we pardon for the causes sake.
Live to thy Countries noblest, bravest ends;
But I must have you and Valerius friends;
And in a friendship such as shall permit
Fury, nor malice to extinguish it.
And whether love, or obligation were
The motives made him prosecute you here,
Of what is past no memory retain,
But reconcile him to your love again.

And sweet Sabina, let your great heart chase
These marks of frailty from your lovely face.
You can their Sister you lament express
In nothing more, than in lamenting less.
But we to morrow set apart to pay
Thanks to the Gods for this victorious day;
And Heaven would with an averted face
Receive our Vows, and would withdraw his grace,
Should not our Priests e're we begin, take care
To purifie th'unhappy Conqueror.
Be that his Fathers task, he may with ease
At the same time Camilla's Ghost appease.
I pity her, and wish her soul may have
What satisfaction can be in the Grave;
Since in one day, one zeal's ungovern'd heat
Did her brave Lovers, and her Fate compleat.
The day that saw them dye, e're hence he goes
Shall see one Monument their Corps enclose.

The King rises, and all follow him except Julia.

Scena Quarta.

Julia.

Heav'n sweet Camilla did foretell,
The Tragical event drew nigh;
But did the secret part conceal,
From the most piercing Judgment's eye:
It seem'd to speak of Nuptial Joys,
It seem'd to sooth thy innocence,
And did thy Death the while disguise,
Deluding our intelligence.

“Alba and Rome to morrow shall surcease
“Their Jars, thy Vows are heard, they shall have peace,
“And thou be joyn'd to Curiace in a tie,
“Never to be dissolv'd by Destiny.

SONG.

(1.)

How frailty makes us to our wrong
Fear, and be loth to dye,
When Life is only dying long
And Death the remedy!
We shun eternity,
And still would grovel here beneath,
Though still in woe and strife,
When Life's the path that leads to Death,
And Death the door to Life.

(2.)

The Fear of Death is the disease
Makes the poor patient smart;
Vain apprehensions often freeze
The vitals in the heart,
Without the dreaded Dart.
When fury rides on pointed steel
Deaths fear the heart doth seize,
Whilst in that very fear we feel
A greater sting than his.

(3.)

But chaste Camilla's vertuous fear
Was of a nobler kind,
Not of her end approaching near
But to be left behind,
From her dear Love disjoyn'd;

When Death in courtesie decreed,
To make the fair his prize,
And by one cruelty her freed
From humane cruelties.

CHORUS.

Thus Heav'n does his will disguise,
To scourge our curiosities,
When too inquisitive we grow
Of what we are forbid to know.

Fond humane nature that will try
To sound th'Abiss of Destiny!
Alas! what profit can arise
From those forbidden scrutinies,
When Oracles what they foretel
In such Ænigma's still conceal,
That self-indulging man still makes
Of deepest truths most sad mistakes!
Or could our frailty comprehend
The reach those riddles do intend:
What boots it us when we have done,
To foresee ills we cannot shun?
But 'tis in man a vain pretence,
To know or prophesie events,
Which only execute, and move,
By a dependence from above.
'Tis all imposture to deceive
The foolish and inquisitive,
Since none foresee what shall befal,
But Providence that governs all.
Reason wherewith kind Heav'n has blest
His creature man above the rest,
Will teach humanity to know
All that it should aspire unto;
And whatsoever fool relies
On false deceiving prophesies,

Striving by conduct to evade
The harms they threaten, or perswade,
Too frequently himself does run
Into the danger he would shun,
And pulls upon himself the woe
Fate meant he should much later know.
By such delusions vertue strays
Out of those honourable ways
That lead unto that glorious end,
To which the noble ever bend.
Whereas if vertue were the guide,
Mens minds would then be fortifi'd
With constancy, that would declare
Against supineness, and despair.
We should events with patience wait,
And nor despise, nor fear our Fate.

The end of the Fifth and last Act.

FINIS.