University of Virginia Library

Scene V.

—The Camp before Ardea.
Enter Sextus.
Sextus.
I never can defile her. Did she quake,
Did my eye bring suspicion of her doom,
There were high exultation in my act.
But sink in her esteem, who finds the prince
In the bottom of my nature! Can it be
That women have no traffic in this sin,
That they can take us by the yellow hair,
As the goddess caught Achilles, and desire
Simply our noblest manhood and the prayers
Of our pure worship? Thus it seems with her:
She has no craving to be satisfied,
No lust to glut, no chafing appetite,
No prying, vile ambition. She is formed,
Through nature's cunning, unapproachable
Save by religious love or foul surprise,
That trembles at its hurry, knowing well
A pause forbids attempt. I am resolved
To visit her, and breathe her household air
That tempers greedy passion; her fresh laugh
Will ease my shameful pangs. I'll make her face
A remedy, for when I meet her looks,
I think of knighthood, princely faith, the bond
Of kinship with her husband, all that keeps
Her loveliness in trust from thriftless rape,
And fraudulent spoliation. You are here!

[Enter Aruns, hastily.]
Aruns.
With doubtful news. You must return to Rome.
What think you of an emptied treasury
For three imperfect parchments? Scarce returned
From Delphi to allay my father's fears,
Because a serpent lapped the altar food,
I find him the meek victim of a maid,
With something of a beggar in her mien,
And yet, confound her! an authority
That makes me cringe.

Sextus.
What are you jabbering of?
We must not rule by augury, nor let
A woman meddle with our destinies.
Who brought these scrolls?

Aruns.
The girl who offered them—
Most wonderful, with tremulous, wild lips,
And solemn eyes clear as the Alban lake,—
Bore nine within her bosom's fold when first
She stood before the king; a second time
She sought him with six volumes in her hand,
Their covers charred, and for these threatened leaves
Claimed the unbated price. This morn, with face
Wan as a shade, hasty, uneven step,
And floating scroll half parted to the wind,
She made fresh proffer of her heavenly wares.
Her gesture was significant; we seized
The fluttering, precious palm-leaves, and possess
The third, the fragment of the holy books,
For the grudged cost of the continuous nine.

Sextus.
A virgin sways the future of our race,
Dominates Rome, erects her prophecies
Above our power, takes gold and reverence!
By heaven, my pride
Will suffer not these women to control
The fortunes of the state, or even crush
The private bosom 'neath their government.
I'll not be fooled, lose treasure and delight
Through fear of their imperious chastity.
I'll break their power, revenge this sibyl's deed,
Hold to my will's design, nor abdicate
One jot of manhood's despotism. Soon
I'll be supreme.

Aruns.
What mean you?

Sextus.
To obtain
The crown of womanhood. I'll see my sire
As I ride homeward from Collatia.
To-night I journey thither.

Aruns.
Nay, desist.
Though you are younger, the king hath an awe
Of your displeasure; you can urge him back
To majesty. And for your private whim,
I never knew you fail of your desire.

Sextus.
Nor will I.

Aruns.
Sextus, you are something rash
To use your kinsman's rights for interview
With fair Lucrece; though galling, I confess,
Our cousin's triumph in his perfect spouse.
The summer fruits yield not a cooler glow
Than Lesbia's cheek. What need you in a wife
Save colour, welcome, softness, and repose?
All these are yours; the diligent Lucrece
Would waken you with early morning thoughts.
Take counsel: leave poor Collatine the guide
He needs—a young Minerva for the fool.

Sextus.
A wager on my enterprise!

Aruns.
I hold
No doubt of the issue; but, success attained,
I see no vantage in the victory.
Come with me to the temple.

Sextus.
Not to-day.
To-morrow meet me at the Capitol
Ere I return to camp . . . [Exit Aruns]
my business done.
O Alban sibyl, in the costly books,
Heavy with auspices of endless note,
Is my dominion celebrated, sung
In ancient verses? On the very eve
When Rome receives her written destiny
From virgin hands, I shall inscribe my rule
Deep in the honour of a Roman wife.
I'll no more trifle, hesitate, refer
Desire to conscience, stoop to self-raised fear,
But like an unswayed monarch singly do
The chief conception of my urgent mood.
Lucretia, do you feel the coming storm?
The sultriness of lust is in the air;
It chokes me as it rises in foul fume
From my embroilèd nature. I am sick
Of this suppression, and the courtesy
That I must feign. The lion shall be loosed
To-night, and all the secrets of his rage
Expounded to the prey,—that gives me force.
To-night! to-night! Meanwhile I'm circumspect.

[Exit.