University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

SCENE, An Apartment in the Palace of the Consuls.
LUCIA, HORTENSIA.
Hortensia.
Lucia , you'll soon be seated on a Throne;
Propitious Fate now offers to your Hands
More than it ravish'd from your Father Tarquin.
When wedded to Liguria's happy King,
Subjects obsequious to their Prince's Will,
Shall joyfully obey your mild Commands.
But why, when Fortune thus relenting smiles,
Swells your sad Heart, abandon'd to Despair?
I've always shar'd the Sorrows you have known;
If you love me, Oh! speak; What Grief devours you?
Can you still languish for the Loss of Rome?

LUCIA.
Rome? the detested Seat of Blood and Slaughter!
The Curse of Kings, and Source of all my Sorrows!
The Place where I am yet detain'd a Prisoner!
Rome!—Ah why was that accomplish'd Heroe,
Why was the lovely Titus born a Roman?

HORTENSIA.
Is Titus then still Sovereign of your Heart?
You have deceiv'd your too, too easy Friend!
Did you not boast, that now you view'd him only,
As Tarquin's Foe, and as the Son of Brutus?
That you abhor'd his Name?

LUCIA.
I then believ'd it:
Disdainful of my blind ill-fated Love,
I labour'd to suppress the growing Flame,
Nor thought my Passion was so deeply rooted.
Indulging in thy Arms my boundless Grief,
I sooth'd myself with Hope, I only mourn'd
The King's Afflictions, and a Brother's Death.
My foolish Heart, alas! deceiv'd itself,
And from my View conceal'd the guilty Cause.
To thee I'll own the Weakness of my Soul;
Those Tears, a Brother's cruel Death demanded,
Were drawn, I fear, by Love, and flow'd for Titus.
But now, the Pain it gives me to depart,
Tears from my Eyes the Veil that cover'd them.

HORTENSIA.
Then fly without Delay from these Usurpers,
And cherish in your Breast the Scorn of Titus.
Rome is too dangerous now for Tarquin's Daughter.

LUCIA.
Alas! my Infant Flame was free from Guilt.
'Twas you alone, displaying all his Virtues,
Instructed first my yielding Heart to love him;
Yet will I not upbraid thee, thoughtless Maid,
Ev'n Thee, th'unhappy Cause of all my Anguish!
You painted Titus, at my Father's Court,
The Darling of the Senators and People,
Gracing the Royal Blood from whence he sprung,
Worthy my Father's Choice, more worthy Mine.
But while your Tongue flow'd wanton in his Praise,
A subtle Poison stole into my Heart.
I rashly entertain'd a fruitless Hope;
And thought I read in his respectful Eyes
The Signs of growing Love, yet check'd with Awe.
O fatal Error! now too late discover'd.

HORTENSIA.
Those were the Days of soft Tranquility,
When Musick, Revelry, and costly Feasts,
With all the Pomp of Tarquin's splendid Court,
Invited sprightly Hopes, and gay Desires.
But, Lucia, you forget your present State;
How cruelly now Titus treats your Father;
Has he not slain his Friends, repuls'd his Troops,
And fortify'd the daring Hands of Rebels?
He tramples under Foot the Royal Rights,
And insolently Triumphs for his Treason!

LUCIA.
'Tis kindly done to rouze my Indignation—
[Huzza's without.
Hear'st thou those Shouts in Honour of the Heroe?
The Royal Spoils which deck the Capitol,
The shatter'd Standards, all embru'd in Blood,
The prancing Steeds, the Chariots, Crowns, and Incense,
Proclaim his wide Renown, and my Disgrace!
And yet my treacherous Heart (with Shame I own it)
More fondly doats for what I ought t'abhor him.
I see by Battels won against his King,
How he would shine, if he had fought for me.
The Lustre of his Deeds dazzles my Sight,
At once displays his Fame, and hides his Guilt.

HORTENSIA.
Th'united Force of Absence and of Reason,
With the gay Pleasures that attend a Court,
To your disorder'd Mind will Peace restore.
You'll speedily subdue this tender Passion.

LUCIA.
A just Disdain will drive it from my Heart!
This daring Rebel, by Success elate,
Beholds with Scorn the Daughter of his King.—
On that illustrious Day to joyful Titus,
(To Me, alas! the Source of Shame and Sorrow,)
When first his Arms were crown'd with Victory,
And Brutus welcom'd his Return with Transport;
All bloody from the Slaughter of my Friends,
He rush'd into my Presence!—I, struck with Horror
And piercing Grief, charg'd him with falt'ring Tongue
Never to see me more.—
How punctually does he obey this Order!
If he but chance to see me at a Distance,
He starts, retires, and leaves me to my Woes!

HORTENSIA.
Behold! here comes—'Tis he himself, 'tis Titus!