 | Horace |  |
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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,
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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.
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?
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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.
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.
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.
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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.
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,
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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.
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.
| Horace | |