THE ROMAN REVENGE. A TRAGEDY. By AARON HILL,
Esq
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PROLOGUE.
TELL me, ye matchless Fair! Ye fearless Brave!
Is there
one Briton—
born to be a
Slave?
No.—While
your
Prince half
Europe's
Ri
hts maintains,
Nor Souls, nor Bodies, here, can stoop to Chains.
Angels,
and
Englishmen, like
Homage, pay:
Bow, but, from Love,—and, but by Choice obey:
I oyal, to keason's Rights, not Slavery's
Awe,
The Sons of Freedom serve the Kings, of Law.
Act, with no Clogs on Sense, no Clouds on Art,
But let in Truth's whole Light, to hear the Heart.
Such, once, was
Rome-to
Strength, not Luxury, train'd:
Then Liberty was Hers, and Virtue reign'd:
Safe, in her own felt Power, and bluntly brave,
She scorn'd alike to
be—
or
make—
a Slave.
No puny
Popeling,
yet, Man's Birth-right
Stole:
Foe, to th' invaded Empire—of the
SOUL!
Plain, prideless Rule bound short Ambition's Plea:
But left Thought, Art, Faith, Hope, and Conscience
free.
Far other Fame was hers, when
Church-craft
reign'd,
Then, every
Cherub's
Face, with Gall, was stain'd:
Sweet-ey'd Religion,
sow'rd,
by priestly Leaven,
Frown'd on pale Peace—and shook her
Keys
at Heaven.
More than her Maker's Rights, She found
too small,
And murmur'd, that his Grants cou'd give
—but ALL.
Wil'd, Inconsistent, Blasphemous, and Vain,
Revers'd God's Laws—to propogate his Reign!
Her Creeds taught Curses.—Her proud Schools Debate
Nothing, but Fool, a Flattery, 'scap'd her Hate.
She
lov'd
Obedience,—but she lov'd it,
blind:
And, safelier to subdue,
debas'd
Mankind.
No Pardon, there, let
Britain's
Sins presume;
Freedom, and Truth, are
HERETICS—
at
Rome.
Religion's Dark
ners will no Reverence feel
For Faith, that bears no Craft, and blinds no Zeal:
Learning, uncurb'd by Cant; Truth, wash'd from Wiles,
An Earth, that Reasons—and a Heaven that smiles:
Homage, that no Sedition can betray,
Yet Liberty, that laughs at lawless Sway.
Such had the World's vain Mistress, then, been fram'd,
When this Night's Story
Rome's
Attention claim'd;
Freedom had nurs'd no Son, to blast her Reign,
And
Caesar
had a Soul, without one Stain.
Persons Represented.
MEN.
Julius Caesar,
Dictator.
Marcus Brutus,
his Son by
Servilia,
but not knowing himself to be so.
Marc Antony,
Consul of
Rome.
Ta
bilius;
A
Roman
Poet, favour'd by
Brutus.
Cassius,
C
ber,
De
mus,
Casca,
Cinna,
Marcellus,
Conspirators against
Caesar.
Trinovantius,
A
British
Tribune, faithful to
Caesar.
Curio
A
Roman
Tribune, in his Confidence.
An
Augur:
Officers, Lictors, and Plebeians.
WOMEN.
Calphurnia, Cae
ar
's Wife.
Portia,
Wife to
Brutus.
Flavia,
A Lady, Attendant on
Calphurnia.
SCENE. The Capital, and Places adjoing.
THE ROMAN REVENGE.
ACT 1.
SCENE 1.
A Hall in
Caesar's
House.
CASSIUS. TORBILIUS. (Crossing.)
S TAY!
turn!—
The imperfect Dawn deceives my Sight,
Or, 'tis
Torbilius.
Cassius:
He!—
How comes it,
I meet thee, in the House of hated
Caesar!
Portia,
to-night, was frighted, in a Dream;
And, hast'ning hither, to alarm
Calphurmia,
Call'd for my Hand, to guide her.
In the
Forum.
Expect strong Clash, this Morning.
Will
Caesar,
then,
Be
King.
He will—yet, Dreams of a to-morrow.
So dies, our Plot abortive.
Rather, die
Caesar!
Fix
Brutus
ours—and yon pale—rising Sun
Shall drink the Tyrant's Blood, before its setting.
Speak softly.—'Tis an unsafe Scene, for Treason.
Not now.—The House is
Desart.—
Every Eye,
Busied remote, strays upward, from the Grove;
Hard, thro' dim Dawn, the Patient
Augurs
pore,
Watchful to teach mysterious Birds, to
lie,
And mock insulted Heaven, to flatter
Caesar.
Wait
you
the
Auguries?
Away—light Questioner!
Brutus,
and I, with more tame
Slaves,
call'd
Senators,
Last Night, beseeching Audience,
kingly Caesar
Told us, fair Meanings shun'd the Shade of Night,
And bad us, when Day rose, attend his Pleasure:
I came a willing Hour too soon—for, oh!
Such a Discovery!—Such Intelligence!
Whence flows it?
Whence do all Court Secrets flow?
Kings
trust
their Minions—and King-Blasters
bribe
'em:
Caesar,
to-night, sat writing, till alarmed,
He heard
Calphurnia
shriek, and rose to aid her.
Left, in his Closet, lay a half transcrib'd,
And strangely—purpos'd WILL:—wherein
who
(think'st thou)
But
Brutus!—
Our last Hope
—Rome
's freeborn
Brutus!
Is nam'd the Tyrant's SON! and Heir of Empire!
In Form of
Will adopted?
Direly;
adopted!
Own'd his true natural-born decendant Son,
By
Cato
's solemn Sister!—Curse her Hypocrisy!
'Twas Ruin—to the Hopes of
Rome,
and Liberty.
What Bribe had Power, to force a Friend from
Caesar.
Thy Friend, and mine—imperial
Gold!—
more Eloquent,
Than ten smooth
Caesars!
bought a true
King-Server
From his Lord's Bosom,—Opportunely near,
He caught the inviting Moment:—left his Covert,—
Read—started—sent to press my early coming,
And, private here, in the still dusk, discolosed it.
Gods! What persidious Friendships cheat Mankind!
Laugh, and be wise.—So, to betray, gives
Greatness.
—Forget not thou, mean-while, to speed thy Charge:
Prepare cold
Brutus
for the Day's Impression:
Swell him, with all his prais'd Forefather's Pride;
Fume his enhaling Soul with Flatte'ry's Incence,
And share divided
Rome
's best Hopes, with
Cassius
Why must
Rome
's Hopes depend on
One
Man's Aid?
All
Men are Ours in
Brutus.—
Thou, and I,
And every
Roman,
leagu'd, to cut off
Caesar,
Hate Caesar.—
Every burning Breast, but His,
Has sep'arate, inselt, private Cause, for
Malice:
Who
will believe, we strike for
Rome.—
So known,
So mark'd, malignant to the Name of
Caesar?
Brutus
is
Caesar
's
Idol!—
and loves
Caesar!
His Aid will consecrate Revenge to Virtue.
He can, when
Caesar
bleeds, turn Tears to Triumph,
And blot the whitest Star, that lights his Character.
But this is Baseness,
Cassius!—
grant it needful,
The
Man
shou'd die—why must we kill his
Virtues?
Why, to oppose his reigning, must we rob
His natural Rights?—why shade the Soul, he shines by?
No—let us own the Beauties of his
Heart:
Weeping, confess his Brave'ry, Tempe'rence, Pity,
Long patient Courtings of rejected Peace—
Yet—dreadful Darings, in Contempt of Danger?
Else, we shall spot
Laws
Face, with Marks of
Envy,
Treating this vastness of a Mind, like Heaven's,
As if keen-ey'd for Guilt, but blind to Goodness.
Perish his Goodness!—grind my Ear no more
With his curst
Qualities:—
I hate his
Power:
I hate myself—hate
Rome—
hate Life, Joy, Victory,
Hate every Hope, but one.—to make
Him
feel,
That slighted
Cassius
drew down Fate on
Caesar.
This let me live to teach him
—Then,—
tho'
Rome,
Sunk, round me, till her tumbling Capital
Smoak'd, for my funeral Pile.—'Twere Death, with
Glory.
Cassius! my
Soul, less fiery, cannot strain
Resentment into Frenzy:—In my Sense,
Reason, not Rage, shou'd measure Plotter's Passions.
Be temperate, or
Hastily.
By Heaven! he comes! you Gallery
Sounds, with his Step.—The holy Farce is ended:
Poet,—farewell.—
Exit
Cassius.
alone.
Farewell, detested Envy!
Motives like thine, turn Justice into Murder.
Something shall, strait, be done.—Caesar! be safe:
He, who forgave my Guilt, demands my Virtue.
Exit.
SCENE II.
CAESAR,
Preceded by Lictors, and Officers, and follow'd at some Distance, by an Augur.
Caesar!
imperial
Caesar!
hear the
Gods.
Go:—Thou art known.—The Gods, thou serv'st, are Senators:
Cassrus,
thy
Phaebus—
and his Gold, thy Jove.
Rest, from this fatal
March,
restrain'd by Heaven,
And, by such unpropitious Auguries, warn'd.
Shame on your
pious Frauds!
they tire Indulgence.
Check not the Voice of Truth: 'twas form'd, for Plainness.
Own it with conscious Shame.—If Truth loves Plainness.
Why are the God's clear Wills perplex'd, by Art?
Speaks
Rome
's high
Pontiff
This?
He does, bold
Augur!
'To rescue Zeal, from Pride's unhallow'd Claim;
That
robs,
to reve'rence Heaven.
Heaven calls for Faith.
How dare you, then, make Infidels, by Falsehood?
Wou'd you, o're Reason, stretch the Chain of Faith,
Gild it, with Heaven's broad Light: Touch the taught
Heart.
Nobly, speak out:—and tell th' attracted World,
Nothing is from the Gods, that shakes Man's Honesty.
Oh! stay thy fatal March—change thy rash Views;
Bid thy rais'd Eagles fall the expanded Wing:
Air
's plumy People, screaming from the Left,
Stoop in their Flight, to warn Thee:—Omens on Omens,
Bode unauspecious Doom—and teem, with Death.
No more.
the Gods
away—I know 'em, best,
Who know 'em Friends to Virtue.—
Virtue is
Liberty.
The Foes of Freedom can attract no
Gods,
To prop their falling Standards;—Heaven beglooms
Thy Star, with some dire Fate:—but
what,
is Darkness.
Go: search it, in the
Air,—
and, if thou find'st it,
Arm'd, in its ugliest Menace, bring it hither.—
When Screams of Birds can shake a Soldier's Heart,
Thou
shalt lead
Priests
to fight, for feeble
Rome,
And lend their
Arts,
to
Caesar.
Tremble.—
Away.
Exit
Augur.
SCENE III.
CAESAR alone.
I
wou'd,
be
happy.—Why,
then, am I
Great?
Men, who desert their Peace, to serve their Glory,
Toil,
for the
Malice
of oblig'd Mankind:
Yet—weigh, warm Heart, impartially sincere,
Whence Opposition Springs—and Love its Boldness.
Why claim I Power Supreme?—was Empire—mine?
Freedom is every
Roman's
native Right;
And every
Roman
Voice demands it back,
Where Power's, unjustly, held—the
Opposer
's just:
But,—where even Freedom is, by Choice,
corrupt,
How fruitless—to redeem the
willing
Slave.
Can I recall the
Dead?—Rome
gives up
Rome;
The cheapen'd Varlets rate their venal Votes,
And sell their Soul's Redeemer.—Sleep, Ambition?
How easier 'tis to
save,
than
mend,
a People!
Fall, servile
Rome!—
No.
—Rome
is
Caesar
's Country.
And, who dares
injure,
where he's born—to
save?
Foes! wrong me on—till pardon'd into Friends:
Busy, for Greatness, I'll neglect Revenge;
Take Envy in Reward, and make it Fame.
What new, kind Fear, alarms thy Lady's Love?
Enter
Flavia
frighted.
Danger, most instant, she wou'd, now, impart,
E're
Cassius,
and his proud Confederates come—
Those Enemies of all her Hopes—and
Gaesar!
Go: tell her,
Caesar
dreads no Enemies,
But those,
Her
selt Afflictions teach to wound him.
Exit
Flavia.
Kneeling.
Hear me,
Thou!
self-producing, dark, first Cause!
All-ruling! all-evading! aweful Power,
Whom, under various Names, blind worship seeks!
If, till compell'd, I drew the public Sword,
Sheath'd, in my Bosom, let the Guilty fall!
rises
But, if brib'd Hopes, or partial Sense of Liberty,
Sovereign'd, a
Senate,
o'er a Nation,
Slaves:
Then, Tyranny (assum'd, to bar a Tyrant)
Gave
Rome
five Hundred Kings—lest one shou'd reign.
If I
must
war—be edg'd my Sword, for Glory:
Better to
hold,
than
bear
tyrannic Sway:
Where
but the Great
are free—Reason's, a Slave,
SCENE IV.
CALPHURNIA, to CAESAR, (ent'ring hastily.)
Caesar!
my Life!—my Love!
my Soul's soft Care!
Thou tremblest!—Some new Vision has alarm'd Thee.
Heaven
is alarm'd—for Virtue sleeps, in Danger.
Rest, from thy Dreams, by
Day—
thou dear Intruder!
Fears, and Affections, are for happier Hours:
War, and our Country's Cares, demand us, now.
Can you be deaf to Warnings, from the
Gods?
Portia
came, trembling, from a dreadful Dream,
That proves mine ominous.
What has she dreamt?
Frighted, she saw her Father's ent'ring Shadow
Glide thro' her Chamber, in a dusky Ray:
Stopping, it fix'd a pale, and empty Eye,
Spoke, in a thin, faint, death-denoting Voice,
And pierc'd her to the Soul.
—Portia, Thou'rt mine,
Th' unbodied Phantom cry'd.
—Brutus no more
Thy Lord—nor Caesar Rome
's.—It said, and pass'd,
And melted into Air, and flow'd away.
The night-born Tremblings of a timid Love,
Unstedfasted by Reason!
Be it no more!—
Yet, see not these dire Men:—They find, and dread
Their Power's Destruction, in the Crown of
Caesar.
Hence, have their plotting Fears, this Day, combin'd,
To blast thy Purpose—or, cut short thy Life.
Soft knocking at the Door.
Go, with thy medling Tenderness.—They come;
Anon, thou shalt be heard:
—One Word indulge me:
E're to the People's public Voice propos'd,
Plebian
Votes permit this Crown to
Caesar,
Hear a sad Secret, my touch'd Heart wou'd tell Thee.
Give thyself Peace.—I
will.
May all
Rome
's Gods,
In pity of her Fate, defend, and bless thee.
Exit
Calphurnia,
meeting
Antony
who bows to her, in passing.
SCENE. V.
CAESAR, MARC ANTONY.
Health, and a length of happy Days to
Caesar!
Freedom, and Faction join, to crown him King.
Who
wou'd be King of Faction,
Antony?
Monarchs, by Freedom crown'd, reign Kings, indeed!
Why checks that boding Sigh, the public Joy?
What is there, in the Course of worldly Dread,
That thy great Heart can Sigh for?
—For a
Friend
No Friend to
Caesar
needs a Sigh, in
Rome.
Oh,
Antony!—
who wou'd not sigh, in
Rome,
That thinks of her lost Virtues.
—If there lives
One, who not hates Oppression, let him love
Rome,
and her Virtues.—Both grown false, and hateful.
Hate not the Guilty, but the guilt, my
Antony:
Ne're shall thy Soul expand, in public Love,
Till it can bear, and pardon, private Wrongs.
When Slander stings us, what shou'd Sufferers do?
Invulnerably Faultless, shame Detraction.—
Why shou'd th'ungrounded Slanders of th' Unjust,
Provoke us, to
deserve
'em?—Late, when here
We met, I told thee,
Caesar,
had a
Son.
If I forsake thy Race
swear nothing,
Antony
Exacting Oaths, I must suspect Deceit:
And he, who trusts the doubted, cheats
Himself.
But who?—what Star of
Rome
is
Caesar
's
—Son!
Suppose it
Brutus.—
Starting.
—Every God renounce him!
What God renounces Excellence, in Man?
Brutus
is hard, and stern.—and, what
is
Man,
Who cannot weep
for
Man—and feel, for Nature?
Servilia was, in secret, vow'd my Wife,
When
Cato,
whose austere, and captious Virtue,
Repell'd even
Virtue—
if it cross'd his own
Jealous of our Assistance,—yet, undreaming,
How far one soft, stol'n, amo'rous Hour had borne us,
Snatch'd the succeeding Day, and, in my Absence,
Forc'd her, distracted, to a
Brutus
's Arms.
What mean the wanton Powers, who license Chance,
To shame thee, with a Son, unlike, as
Brutus!
Sedition, will not hear, the call of Blood:
Intractably morose, it shuts out Pity,
And starves Humanity, to cherish Pride.
Time, that transforms us all, shall win back
Brutus.
Time's Comqueror might reclaim him.
Who
's that?
—Death.
How!—To
whom
speak'st thou this?
—To Man.
—Be
one.
And, when thou speak'st again—speak, to the
Father.
If I offended
—Caesar
can be partial.
No.—For, I see thee honest, through thy Error.
I thought, Revenge of Wrongs was right of Nature.
Men think but to the Limits of their Minds.
For me—despising Wrongs, I shun Severity.
Yet, sure! Allenvied Greatness, wou'd be
safe.
Greatness is safest, when it dares
forgive.
Rome
hates your Power.
Then, she shall love my
Mercy.
I can but wish thee bless'd:—And, still, serve on.
Come, thou shalt
aid
me.—Thou hast lent thy Arm
To conquer Nations for me:—Conquer
Brutus:
Teach him, that noblest Courage shuns to hate:
Charm him, to taste the Power of
gentle
Sway;
New humanize his Heart, to
thy
soft Model,
And graft Politeness on his Savage Virtue.
When
Caesar
bids—his
Antony obeys:
Had
Brutus
been
my
Son—I, too, had hop'd.
Enter
CURIO.
Caesar!—
th' expected Lords'
Admit 'em,
Curio.
Exit
Curio
SCENE VI.
Caesar,
seated:
Antony, Brutus, Cassius, Cimber, Decimus, Casca, Cinna, Marcellus,
advancing to their Seats.
Health to the Jealous for their Country's Freedom;
Caesar
's Distrusters, welcome!
—Cimber! Decimus!
Marcellus! Gasca! Cassius! Brutus!—All!
This Day, the Senate sits: quick, therefore, teach me
The previous Purpose of your offer'd Zeal.
Rome
dreads to lose her
Caesar,
in a King.
What wou'd you do with this fam'd
Sybil
's
Prophesy?
How check the public
Terror?—
Must I march
With trembling Legions, unsustain'd at Heart,
And desperate, from Defect of, but a
Name?
By Oracles fore-doom'd for
Parthia
's Fall?
Cassius,
you
smile.—
The
Great
should judge the Great:
For, never mean Man's Thoughts out-stretch'd his
Feeling:
Speak,
Brutus—
were
your Choice
your General's Leader,
What wou'd you wish him
called?
Rome
call'd him
—Consul.
Rome
did so—but, when superstitious Dread
Of hostile Arms has damp'd a Nation's Fire,
Changes, which tend to raise dejected Hope,
Are
Wisdom.
Wisdom has its
Fears.—
—Speak boldly:
Attentive, even from
Foes,
to borrow Benefit,
I court Suspicion's Gall, to aid my Judgment,
With all th' instructive Doubts of Men, who
hate
me.
No Foe has
Caesar—
but his
Crown
has many.
King,
was a Title, aweful, anicent, sacred.
Rising.
Plain Truth is a blunt Talker—never, rash Consul.
Never did
Sylla, Marius, Pompey,—
Never,
In all the Boldness of usurp'd Command,
Dare the shun'd
Name—
howe'er they grasp'd the
Power:
Nor challenge kingly Style, in freeborn
Rome.
But Liberty, perhaps, becomes too bold.
True Liberty is bold, without Presumption:
And, without Flattery, gentle.
—Cassius,
be heard.
Raising.
Caesar
has
sworn,
to guard our ancient Rights;
Sworn, to uphold one sole Supreme—the
Law:
Caesar
unperjur'd,
Rome
can fear no
King.
Malice, disguis'd in Counsel,—Keep it,
Cassius:
Permitted Slander is a
willing Tax,
That patient Power pays, to the Rights of Liberty.
rising
Be
Caesar
King—but, still, let
Rome
be free!
A plain Man's honest Prayer.
—Brutus
why dumb?
rising
mournfully.
I must be dumb, if neutral:—but, compell'd
To
speak,
disdain to speak, unlike a
Roman:
What helps it to
Rome
's Friends, if
Rome
wears Fetters,
That Foes, in
Asia,
join, to drag her Chain?
Leave
Parthea
safely fierce:—Dangers remote
Touch but our
Fears—
Domestick Ones are
felt.
Brutus!
Thou err'st, undreaming it.
—Thou, Cassius,
Art, knowingly, an unmisled Misleader:
Thy Passions fram'd the Pile:—good
Decimus,
Marcellus, Cimber,
and such
live Materials,
Buttress thy factious Building:—'Tis in vain,
To reason with the
Partial:
Men, who call
Their own corrected Pride, the public Danger;
Else, I wou'd say, to Minds, that could reflect,
Be Freemen
among
Freemen.—hard Controul
Breaks a wrong'd People's Spirits, into Slaves,
Or, spur's 'em into Rebell's.—'Tis dishonest:
What Right have we to Freedom, not alike
The Property, ev'n of the
Poorest Roman?
When fed the lab'ring
Ox,
abreast the
Lion?
How venal is all
Rome!—
Her every
Senator
Sold, to his Passion's Biddings.
—Brutus
is sold
To Pride,—to avarice, some:—These
Envy
draw;
Those
Fear;—
in Others, hopes of promis'd Power
Warp the Dependent Will, to crooked Reasonings;
Loose, as the Bribes, that bought 'em.
—Voices, Caesar!
Are, sometimes, sold—where
Hands
retain their Liberty.
True—Angry
Cassius!—
But, the
Head,
misguiding,
Hands
will mistake the Mark, and wound
Themselves.
How soon have you forgot
Pharsalia's
Field?
Fortune decided,
there:—
At
Rome,
'tis
Law,
Fortune decided strangely
Caius Cassius!
If I, by having conquer'd, must
obey,
And you, from being beaten, claim
Command!
rising
with
Emotion.
Aften such sierce, unveil'd, presumtuous Menace,
Rome
must forget,
ferever,
to obey,
Or
Caesar, once,
to pardon.
to
Cassius.
—Cassius,
it grieves me,
That Thou compell'st a Sentence, too severe,
rises
Since Mercy serves but to excite Offence,
And Bounty spurs Ingratitude—be
—safe:—
Sunk, to the Shelter of a wrong'd Man's
Pity,
Too feeble to provoke.—Escape Revenge.
comes
forward
holding
him.
Call it no Crime, to apprehend Distress!
If Liberty offends, and Truth grows Treason,
Thank Heaven, the most dejected Slave, on Earth,
Holds Priviledge to
die.—
But
Caesar
frowns!
Note it, attentive Gods! and wake, for Freedom!
Imperial
Caesar frowns!—
Rome
's Master frowns—
That Opposition speaks uncourtly Truth.
turning
to
go.
No more.—The Rest, when in full
Senate,
met:—
Till then, farewell.—
Exeunt Senators.
—Stay
Consul,—Brutus—stay.
SCENE VII.
CAESAR. BRUTUS. ANTONY.
—after a long Look, fix'd carnestly upon
Brutus,
Maxims, inhumam, fierce, and blind, like Thine,
Disgrace a Freeman's Name.
Brutus
turns
to go
—Stay, I command Thee;
Return,
rash Man—and know—'tis
Caesar,
calls.
returning.
All my adhering Heart feels
Caesar, King,
Leave but
Rome
's Senate free, devoted
Brutus
Shall rest thy willing Slave.—
Proud, as Thou art
Of Liberty, thou hast not learnt, that Freedom,
Beyond all Yokes, hates, most, this Yoke of
Prejudice,
That makes Men Siaves, at
Soul.—
THINK freely,
Brutus
And let us argue, like unbiass'd
Romans:
Thou talk'st of Rights
—Rome
's Rights:—are not the People
The assembled People; ROME? Is not Law
Theirs?
Counsel, that, not complied with, would
compell,
Turns Law to
Tyranny.
Shall
Tumult
reign?
Shall high-born
Senates serve,
and Groundlings
govern?
No.—Mark the
Senate
's Bounds—and mark the People's:
Foresight, and Guardian Care, and weigh'd Advice.
Debated Means, and Remedies propos'd,
These
and these
only,
are the SENATE's Rights:
Propounded Laws accepted, or refus'd,
This
is the PEOPLE's Claim: and
both
are
Rome.
Thanks to the Gods,
Rome
boasts some Patriots, still.
Yes—grasping Hopes undue and check'd of Aim,
Patriots, in Aid of Vengeance! they combine,
To
clog
the Wheels, they can no longer guide:
Hiding low-self, behind the Public Cause,
They Murmur, till they purchase private Ease,
Then, License General Pain, to curse Mankind.
Held not the
Senate
S
ale most Weight, in
Rome?
Rome
felt it,
Brutus—
till my Arms relive'd her.
He, who, by Arms, rules Freemen, teaches
Slaves—
By Arms, to rule that Ruler.
Trust a try'd Sword.
Curse its bold Use—in any Hand, but
Caesar
's,
When, to the vulgar Herd, it levels Nobles,
Born, to be Great—and mixes Hinds with
Consuls.
Born
did'st thou say?—mark, how thy partial Pride,
Barring the Gates of Hope, wou'd shut out Merit!
No Man was ever
Born,
but
form'd
to Greatness:
Who, but aspiring—Hinds—were
—Rome
's first Fathers?
Unvulgar Spirit rais'd their Deeds to Fame,
And, thence, unvulgar
Reverence
mark'd 'em
Noble.
—But, in our Hands, diminish'd Honour Shrinks
To bare
Degree,—
and shames the Rights of
Rank.
Heaven!—what a difference 'twixt
Old Rome,
and
Ours?
Our first fam'd Ancestors
gave
worth—to Blood:—
We, from a worthless
Birth,
wou'd
steal
Distinction.
Pensions, with us, take Place:—with them, 'twas Virtue.
Our Av'rice Plunders Friends: Their conquering Bounty
Took nothing, ev'n from Foes—but Power of Insult.
Grant us less worthy; still Their Claims are Ours:
And Sons, who basely quit their Father's Rights,
Deserve to live, like Slaves—or die, like Traitors.
Fie!—let us Blush, to name our Father's Right's,
Who leave their Claim to Honesty,
forgot!
Oft, in sunk States, when Power presumes, on
Vice,
New Crimes call out new
Virtues.
Rome
's new Virtues
Match her new Maxims: Mark their Grandeur,
Brutus
Active, in other's Industry, we build,—
Race, Game, Dress, Dance, Feast, and drink deep, for Glory:
Ours are the
Tastes
of Life: Let
humbler States
Learn its lean
Duties:—
We, to lighten Joy,
Have, elegantly painless! cast off Care:—
Hunger, and Thirst, and loose Desires—anticipate:
Posponing nothing—but Thought, Fame, and Justice.
Vallies we teach to rise: O'er levell'd Hills
Stretch the tir'd Sight:—But, inward turn no Eye:
Ourselves the darkest Part of our own Prospect.
Well say they,
Rome
is chang'd.
—'Tis
chang'd, indeed!
Women are chang'd to Men,—and Men to Women.
Anger
has chang'd its Mark:
—Roman
's shock
Roman
's,
Yet, tame to
Parthian
Insults, hold back Vengeance,
That Robbers may have Rest,—and Bribery Leisure.
To Sons of Faction, screen'd but by
Rome
's
Crimes,
Why name we
Roman Virtues?
—On
Thy
Voice
Dwells Eloquence, that make ev'n Error charming,
O, too persuasive
Caesar!—
But Thou,
Antony,
Shalt know, that, when fall'n
Rome
's degenerate
Consuls
Live,—a King's Slaves,
—Brutus
shall die—a
Roman.
Exit.
SCENE VIII.
CAESAR. ANTONY.
after
a
Pause.
Now, Caesar!
what deserve such
Romans?
after
a short
Pause.
—Freedom.
They are
too f
ee,
who treat their
Friends,
with Insult,
If Man were plac'd above the Reach of Insult.
To Pardon, were no Virtue:—Think, warm
Antony,
What Mercy
is—
'Tis daring to be wrong'd,
Yet, unprovok'd by Pride, persist in Pity.
Power, that endures Contempt,
invites
Rebellion,
Dream not, that Moderation weakens Power:
The heart-felt Sovereign smiles, at Faction's Rage;
And those malignant Men, who hate unjustly,
We punish most, when we are most belov'd.
What Prince, who was not
fear'd,
was, eyer, safe?
Only, in War, he shoud be
fear'd.—
In Peace, be
honour'd Antony.
Even Self-defence requires, at least, that bloody
Cassius
fall.
Why shou'd I strike the
Weak,
who cannot wound me▪
Punish the guilty
Will,
that dar'd
imagine.
So
Minions
teach
tame
Kings, to merit
Hate.
Where Kings suspect,
—preventing,
they secure.
Scorn to
suspect,
where thou woud'st scorn to
fear.
Nor waste, on ev'ry slight and weak Offence,
The
Dignity
of Vengeance.—I will, anon,
Trust
Brutus
with his Birth: Nature must move him.
If not—I leave him to the Gods, and Time.
Shall he
oppose,
yet,
wear
his Father's Crown?
Shou'd Life allot me Hope, to stretch
Rome
's Soul
To Latitude for Liberty—'twere more
Than Empire, to restore her.—If the Task,
Hard, and extensive, calls for lengthening Years,
While, in untimely Hour, I, distant, die,
Brutus,
by this last Light, will judge my Purpose.
gives a Paper.
Long may the Gods, preserving
Caesar's
Life,
Protect his Purposes, from Care, not
Caesar
's.
Life has too short a Reach, for long Designs:
And, oft, the Fruit not ripe, the Tree declines:
No Help unneedful, Man shou'd
all
purfue,
Lest Time slide from him,—and his Hopes die, too.
End of the First
ACT.
ACT. II.
SCENE I.
A Room in
Caesar's
House. Two Chairs plac'd:
Calphurnia, Flavia.
GO,
Flavia;—
spread Enquiry through the Palace:
While I, prolonging Time, by every Art
Of apprehensive Love, hold
Caesar,
fix'd
In Conference, till slow
Torbilius
comes:
Fittest Reporter of his own sad Tale,
To force Belief, and fire reluctant Vengeance.
without
Where is this bosom Counseller of
Caesar?
Fly—find
Torbilius:—
when he comes, touch soft
My Silver Bell, that the known Sound may war me.
Exit
Flavia.
Tis past,
Calphurnia.—
The try'd Faction's hatred
Repell'd obtruded Candor.
Shun thy Forgiveness?
Men, of contracted Views, distrust
kind
Meanings;
For, no Heart credits, what it cannot feel.
What frightful
Story
has my Dreamer, now?
A sad, and dreadful Truth.-No Dream-No Doubting:
He, whose dire Property the Secret rests,
Guardian of
Caesar
's Life, demands his Ear.
For me—I cou'd but speak my Fears, and Follies.
Follies have Charms, when Fears, like thine, are follies:
Man may draw Profit, then, from Woman's Weakness:
And, in one tender Wife's mistaking Faith,
Find Recompence, for every Friend, that's
false.
they sit.
Can there be Rest, in Danger?
Sure! There shou'd not:
Why is Ambition, then, too hard for Peace?
Why, always busy, to be never blest,
Does restless
Caesar
sacrifice, unthank'd,
The Taste, the Quiet, the
Serene,
of Life,
For an ungrateful World, that hates his Bounty?
'Tis the great Mind's
expected
Pain,
Calphurnia
To Labour for the Thankless:—He, who seeks
Reward
in Ruling, makes Ambition Guilt:
And, living for
Himself,
disclaims Mankind.
Alas!—the Friend to
All
obliges none.
'Tis nobler to protect Mankind, than please.
Is it a Crime, when Virtue loves
itself?
Princes shou'd
widen
self:—Their Power, and Heart,
Alike Receptive, must make room for
All:
'Tis theirs, to Sigh, for every Sufferer's Woe;
Lend their own Joys, that others may be glad:
Think ev'en for unborn Ages; and transmit
Blessings unshar'd—and quiet, not their own.
Virtues, so rais-d, as these, but waste their Warmth,
And shine, unfelt, in
Rome.—
The Vulgar Eye
Sees, by its own low Level:—As Men
act,
They
judge:
and, by corrupt Self-Interest weigh'd,
Goodness,
like
Heaven's, wou'd seem Self-Interest, too.
No Matter.—Virtue Triumphs, by Neglect:
Vice, while it darkens, lends but
Foil,
to Brightness:
And juster Times, removing Slander's Veil,
Wrong'd Merit, after Death, is help'd to live.
Can present Pain be cur'd, by future Ease?
Who wou'd not, once, look dim, to shine, for ever?
How happy is it for a Wife, who
loves,
When
lowlier
Prospects bound her Lord's Desires,
And Home-felt Quiet fills his peaceful Heart!
Why wou'd you be a
King?—
wait, till some King
Aspires, to be a
Caesar:—
Lend not Envy
New Props to lean against: This threat'ning Name
Beats on the
Roman
's unaccustom'd Ear,
Like a black Storm—and blasts the Hope of Liberty.
Never, henceforth, disturb thy gentle Breast,
With false Forebodings, from a regal Toy!
Know me above its Want:—beyond its Glory:
Given, tho' unheld, It meets the Parthian Prophesy;
Bids the rous'd Legion's superstitious Hearts
Resume lost Ardor:—and fure Victory's, Theirs.
Tho'
Parthia
fell, there's a
Patrician
Envy,
That, never quench'd, burns but with fiercer Blaze,
From each new Proof, that Old Injustice wrong'd thee:
Taink of those Midnight Haunters of my Fancy!
Think, how I saw thee bleed, at every Vein:
While, at each spouting Stream, a murderous
Roman
Stain'd his extended Arm, and roar'd for Liberty.
Cassius!—
stern
Cassius!—
starting up
—Blast him, Heaven!—methinks,
I
see
him,
there,—
full, in my Eyes, he glares!
Pale, in the horrid Transport of his Vengeance;
And, dreadfully, enjoys the ghastly Scene!—
Kneels.
Oh! grant thyself, to
live:
Grant sad
Calphurnia
That Prayer:—She begs it, but for
Rome,
and Nature.
Why wilt thou kneel?-What coud'st thou ask, in vain!
Death—instant Death, to that malignant
Cassius!
Since thou were't first my Wife, I never saw thee
Cruel, till this strange Moment!—Dovelike gentle,
Healing Compassion sooth'd thy Heart, to Softness:
And, on thy sparkling Eye, sat weeping Mercy.
'Tis Mercy, to Mankind, to punish Villains.
Rise: and relieve me, from this new Distress.
Bell rings without.
Rising.
I will:—And thou shalt owe to Woman's Fear
A Safety, manly Confidence had lost Thee.
How art thou heated, by an idle Dream,
To strike at fansied Guilt, with real Anger!
The Wife of
Caesar
wrongs not, even his Foes.
Flavia! Lucilia!
here—who waits, without?
Enter a Lady.
The Man, with whom I held Discourse, this Morning!
Bid him Re-enter.
Exit
Lady.
Who!
—What
Man is this?
Torbilius—
the sow're Satirist:—Thy Enemy.—
No Enemy of mine—if Wit's his Friend.
Once, when condemn'd, for libelling my
Caesar,
Thy all-permitting Mercy, not alone
Forgave—but, bad him claim distinguish'd
Bounty;
Till Wit, misled, cou'd find the way to Judgment.
I know him not:—What can'st thou hope,
Calphurnid,
From these
slight
Men?—So bold, yet, blind of Soul,
That Wit, with them, supplies the Place of Virtue;
And, censuring other's Faults, absolves their own.
Staying, when
Portia
went, his trembling Gratitude.
Pray'd Audience, in a Cause, that touch'd the
Life
Of threat'ned
Caesar:—
For the Rest, he comes:
Let his own Tongue retrace the horrid Tale.
SCENE II.
CAESAR, CALPHURNIA, TORBILIUS.
Hail,
Caesar!
more than Victor!—Common Conquerors
Vanquish but Power:
Caesar
subdues the
Will.
Why dost thou flatter!—Stranger to my Passions,
Whence wou'd thy Skill presume, to judge my Virtue?
Take heed, thou sell'st not Praise, to purchase Scorn!
Encomium
is a bold, and dange'rous Province!
It calls for Reason:—Slander asks but Rage:
Who
drt
Thou?—what is thy Pretence, in
Rome?
Touch'd by the
Muse's
Love, I, there, indulge
The tuneful Transports of Satiric Fire:
Rome
is a fruitful Field, for
Themes,
like mine!
And
Brutus,
wit's kind Patron! loves my Verse.
Where Wit wants Patronage—a
State
wants Wisdom.
Keen, tho' the Darts, by angry Genious thrown,
The Wise can
Guide
'em, while the Base
Restrain:
Satire, in honest Hands, is Murmuring Virtue:
And He, who fears its
Hiss,
deserves its
Sting.
Yet, tis a dangerous, and malignant, Good!
Tho' Freedom's Property, 'tis Faction's Spoil.
Where justly bold, 'tis Reason's manliest Impulse:
Where blindly virulent, 'tis Wit's Disease.
Think, and distinguish:—Are thy Censures
weigh'd?
Dost thou Proportion Anger, to its Cause?
Had I done that, I had not wrong'd thy Name:
I was
not
just:—For, I was
Caesar
's Foe.—
Can
Caesar
have forgot
Torbilius Asper?
Why wonder'st thou at that?—For my own Sake,
My
Friend
imprints Remembrance;—but my
Foe,
For
His,
shou'd be FORGOTTEN.
Generous
Caesar,
Forgetting
me,
forgets the Guilt, he pardon'd,
And Claims not his own Virtues!
Roman!
learn
To measure Truth, more justly:
—Benefits,
From their Receiver only, claim
Remembrance:
He, who bestows, and not
forgets—resumes
'em
Perish the Mem'ory, and the Man, together,
When I forget such Greatnef?—
Spare thy Words:—
And hasten to disclose thy Thanks, in Action.
What know'st Thou, that deserv'd Attention, here?
Cassius,
whose Love of
Rome,
is Hate of
Caesar,
Lists an implicit Clan of warm Resenters:
Men, who, with dim Discernment, tracing Liberty,
Plunge headlong in Sedition.—Among these,
He stoop'd his active Bribe'ry, ev'n to
me:
Courting my humble Aid, to influence
Brutus,
Whose Name, and Power, might Mask the Face of
Murder.
Whom would they Murder?
—Rome
's last Hope, in
Caesar.
Now,
Caesar!
now, am I an idle Dreamer?
Does
Brutus
know this Purpose?
—Yet he does not:
And
Caesar,
still, might guard the generous Heart
Of his belov'd: And save him, from the Vile.
All Flatter'y's full-try'd Power
Unites,
to shake him:
That done, the
Tempter
ply's his Master Engine;
Draws him, this Day, to meet the assassin Faction:
Then—but that Heaven defends Thee—join'd by
Brutus,
Th' encourag'd Murde'rers
strike:—
not join'd
forbear.
If
Caesar
's Death must wait, till
Brutus
strikes,
His Life wou'd prove immortal!—Men, of Heat,
Like
Cassius,
torture their distemper'd Reason,
To Act their Passion's Impulse:
—Brutus
weighs
Desire's warm Pleas, in the cool Scale of Justice:
Finds Force, in Other's Claims, against
Himself,
And loves the Virtue. that
condemns
him.
Go on,
Torbilius!—
Set, in
Caesar
's View,
What
Cassius
loves; and Point us out
His
Virtues.
It shall not need:—He stands condemn'd, already.
Joyfully.
To
what
condemn'd?
Condemn'd to
live, Calphurnia.
What! and not tortur'd?
—Pride's severest
Rack
Is that sharp
Mercy,
which descends from
Scorn.
Think it a Fault, to fear these choleric Praters:
Their hot, slight, Threat'nings
waste
themselves, in Slander;
And rail away Revenge, to gradual Peace:
But, there's a cold, slow, silent, patient Malice,
That carries
Mischief
with it!—Such a Soul,
As
Brutus
Acts by—had it
Will,
for Murder:
Cool, in its govern'd Hate, might call for Cruelty.—
What read'st Thou?
—Silent Summoners, to Murder
These
Cassius
Causes to be dropt, with Art,
Where
Brutus
must be sure to find, and read 'em.
What wiles has Malice!
Poor, and petty,
Crafts!
They want but my Regard, to lend 'em
Weight.
Returning
the
Paper.
Torbilius, meet
'em:—and, with strictest Note,
Mark, what Impression
Cassius
makes on
Brutus.
All, Thou canst learn of
That,
be swift to bring me;
And trust the Claims of Gratitude, to
Caesar.
The
grateful
make no
Claims.—
A mindful Debtor
Pays—
not
obliges:—
Never met, in one,
The
Poet,
and the
Miser:—
The same Fire,]
That sparkles, in his Fancy's native Blaze,
Glows, at his honest
Heart;
and burns out Baseness:
True Genious will not—cannot; stoop to Bribes:
And He, who sells his
Passions,
ne're had Wit,—
Or had it, for a Curse, unmix'd with Judgment.
'Tis nobly said;—and, with a warmth, that only
Suspected Virtue
feels.—Henceforth, be
mine:
On modest Merit, not to
force
Reward,
Were to
degrade
Supremacy.
Where meet They?
In the cool
Grot,
behind the
Platan
Grove:
There
Brutus,
oft alone, and oft with Friends,
Steals an unbusied Hour, for reasoning deeply:
Or, in free Mirth, dilates the slack'ning Soul.
What was the appointed
Time?
The fatal Choice,
Yet doubtful, must depend alone on
Brutus.
Some Three Hours, hence, I look to find 'em met,
Go, good
Tarbilius.—
Wait within my Call:
For I shall Try thy Faith in
Caesar's
Cause.
Exit
Torbilius
SCENE III.
CAESAR, CALPHURNIA.
I am alarm'd. for
Brutus!
Doubt him not:
Is he
ambitious?
No,—but he is
vain.
Then, beyond Hope, he's lost.—Ambitious Men
Lead, and discern—but vain Ones follow, blind.
Thou hast contagious Power, in that Suspicion:
Great Minds, on some unguarded Quarter,
weak,
Find their try'd Virtue,
there,
sublimely frail:
Were
Cassius artful!—
Had his Malice,
Coldness,
—Cou'd he first
praise,—
and, then, attack, where warmest,
The Public-hearted
Brutus.
Nay he does;
'Tis from that Point, he levels all his Aim.—
Who
knows not
Brutus
proud!—and Flattery's Art
Sets Pride at work, to
sap
her own Foundation:
And pull down Character, to build up Name.
Then,
Cassius
merits my regard:—and dies:
Light, in
himself,
he, yet, deserves but Scora:
Awak'ning Danger, in corrupted
Brutus,
He makes his own rais'd Mischief worth Revenge.
But, can I trust a Doubt, like this, to chance?
Th' unsure Conversion of a rash Man's Spleen?
Who
knows, but, feigning Penitence,
Torbilius
Courts you to Confidence, he would betsay?
No.—It shall ne'er be said, that
Caesar
's
Wife
Left
Caesar
's Safety, to Another's Faith.
She, who, too lightly weighs a Husband's Danger,
Takes Arms, at Heart, against him.
Trust
Torbillius,
He will deserve thy Faith:—Reflecting Minds,
By Gratitude once gain'd, relapse no more.
Thus will I
sound
his Purpose:—then, confide.—
Portia,
this Morning, press'd a
Visit,
from me:
Oft, thro' her Garden's private Gate, unmark'd,
Ent'ring alone, that
Grot,
invites my Notice:
There, silently conceal'd, where Art-form'd Rocks
Lend jutting Umbrage to the
cavy
Screen,
I
hear,
what
Cassius
moves:—What
Brutus
yields:
This, if the Satrist dissuades:—he's
false:
This, if he aids,
Calphurnia
judges
Cassius:
And
Life,
or
Death,
be His, as Justice Dooms.
In Love, and Anger, Woman's Will is
deaf;
I know, thy gen'rous Purpose is too firm,
To let my Fears for
Thee,
forbid this Danger.
Yet, while, in Dread of mine, thou dar'st thus rashly,
Be it my Care to interpose, in Thine.
Curio,
the
Tribune,
with a Guard, must wait Thee.
Their Number will detect me.
No,—let
Torbilius,
Singly, and slow, unnotic'd, introduce 'em;
Thro' the lone Postern, that adjoins the Grove.
Bless the kind Thought!—And now, shou'd Murder dare
One
Glance,
at thy dear Bosom, bloody
Cassius
Shall, on the guilty Spot, that Moment
die.
Spare thy disorder'd Heart.
—Cassius
is hasty!
But,
Brutus
shall with mild Reproof, reduce
The Madman's Rage, and shame him into Safety.
I dread to
arm
Thee.—Prejudice is rash.—
Have I been
subject,
then, to rash Impressions?
Thy Reason, I cou'd trust—but not thy Anger:
Religion
's Curb, in He
rt's, like Thine, binds surest:
Swear,
by some sacred
Tye.—
Hear me,
whole Heaven!
By
Rome
's raiss'd Fate!—By her Forefather's God's!
By aweful
Vesta
's unexpiring Flame!
By
Venus,
M
ther of thy Race, o'
Caesar!
If Treason leaves out Time to reach thy Ear,
E're Danger catch thy Life
—Cassius
shall live,
To learn his Doom from Thee.—and 'scape my Vengance.
See! the concurring Gods have sent Thee
Curio!
SCENE IV.
CAESAR, CALPHURNIA, CURIO.
Shouts, from
patient Crowds, demand a King;
And
royal
aesar
glads the Streets of
Rome.
after writing in a Table-Book.
Curio!—
Joy's flattering Sounds are loud Deceivers:—
C
lphurnia
's busy Fears have trac'd a Traitor,
B
rn to high Rank, and fam'd for Arms, and Envy.
Go, with due Strength; guard thou the Wife of
Caesar:
And, if this
Blank,
that, now, conceals his
Name,
Fill'd, by
her
Hand, points out the guilty
Roman,
Weigh
Caesar
's Life, with
His:—
and be
this Warrant
Thy Sword's
Authority,
to do me Right.
giving the Table-Book to
Curio.
Where e're your Danger warrant's me to strike,
If Treason 'scape my Sword—let Flight in War,
Want—and eternal Infamy, Revenge,
The Cause of
Caesar,
on his Soldier's Name!
Marc
Antony
return'd!
Curio!
thy Ear.—
SCENE V.
CAESAR, ANTONY.
All is prepar'd;—pale
Cassius
Looks, still paler:
And starts at every
Shout,
that Shakes the
Forum:
Never, henceforth, let Noise be call'd Sedition:
Rome
's public Mouth outroars a
hundred Senates!
One loud Consent unites her grateful Tribes,
And
Parthia
's Fall takes Date, from
Caesar
's Crown.
Join'd
Brutus,
in that Voice.—
No Roman hop'd it:
Reserves,
they know, must guard the
Stoick
's Gravity:
What
sowre Solemnity of Look, like His,
Stoops a lost
Smile,
to grace
Plebeian Lightness!
Men, who can
laugh,
as I do—jovial Thinkers!
Fram'd for their Ease, and born, to hate Affliction!
See
Things, but as they
are!
void of the
Wit,
That hunts for cover'd Anguish! long, sound Sleepers!
Dull, satisfied, glad Rogues! they trust their Senses,
Love their Friend's,
best:
and wish, but what they want.
Brutus
is deep:—dives farther into Bliss—
Shakes his superior Brow, and
pities
Fools,
Who dare be
happy,
against Rules of Policy,
Where coud'st thou find him, now?
Immur'd, at Home,
Sagely despising his good Lords,—the People:—
And shutting
Caesar
's Triumph, from his Ear.
Take this Occasion,
Antony,
to visit him;
Bid his wish'd Presence grace thy publick Zeal!
If he declines it, sting him, to Resentment:
Watch, in that Warmth of Heart. what Thoughts escape him;
Sound
the dark Depth of his Designs;—and tell him,
That to the Capitol, thou mean'st to bring me:
Rome
's
Crown,
by Freemen given to guard their Liberty,
How noisy is that
Nothing!
All its Virtue
Dwells in its Sound:—It means but covered Tyranny.
Ever distinguishing Substances, from Sound:
There is in Liberty, what God's approve;
And only Men,
like
Gods, have Taste, to share.
There is in Liberty, what Pride perverts,
To serve Sedition, and perplex Command:
True
Liberty leaves all Things free,—but Guilt;
And fetters every Thing,—but Art and Virtue.
False
Liberty holds nothing bound, but
Power,
And lets loose every Tye, that strengthens Law.
Caesar,
in Science, as in Power, Supream,
Calls Lustre, out of Darkness!—But to
Me,
What seems most strange, of Faction's strange Effects,
Is, that among those Crowds, she tempts to Mischeif,
I see
good
Men, belov'd for every Virtue!
Blindly misdrawn, to
hate
the peace they
wish.
Boast fully blind, a Bigot's Proof is
Trust;
Faultless in Purpose, yet—his Choice unjust!
Active, that erring Zeal may Truth invade,
Enthusiast
Pride obtrudes her blund'ring Aid.
Fierce to the Field, keen Disputants she draws,
Implicit Props of some unreasoning Cause!
Th' absur'd Reformer
Order
overthrows,
And works up Discord—for the World's
Repose!
Jealous of Enemies, disquiets Friends,
Groans, without Wound; and without Fruit, contends,
Wildly sincere! unprevalently strong!
Struggling for Right—and introducing Wrong:
End of the Second Act.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
A Grand Apartment in the House of
Brutus.
BRUTUS, ANTONY.
URGE it no more—I am fix'd.
Think wiselier
Brutus
Consul! when bold Oppression grapples Law,
Men, who protect the Oppressor, stab the State.
Men, who so roughly dare Mischarge their
Lord,
Pretending Liberty, pursue but Pride.
Caesar,
however rais'd, is less than
Lord.
Caesar
however wrong'd, is more than Friend:
Even Gratitude has made
Respect,
a Duty:
Present, or absent Thou—the Tribes will crown him.
Crown? whom?
One, whom if
Brutus
knew but rightly,
I fear I do!
No—if you did, you'd tremble.
I have already, trembled
Antony!
Trembled—to hear a
Roman
tempt a
Roman,
And dare corrupt a Patrsot, yet unsold!
Corrupt, I wou'd not.—All I wou'd, I dare.
The basely bold shou'd learn, to dread the Just.
When
Brutus
bids me dread—I hear and Smile.
Smile on your
King:
Flattery was made for Thrones.
The rough, wrong'd
Roman
frowns, with honest scorn.
Brutus,
I rev'erence
Firmness;
but despise
Th' Hypocrisy of Envy! I have a heart,
That being human, feels for humankind.
I tow're not to the Gods:—Virtue, once rais'd
Above Compassion, ceases to
be
Virtue:
Aiming at more than
Man,
thou sink'st to less.
I wou'd be less than
King;
and more than
Slave.
Farewell:—rash Zealots blindly grow unjust;
And Pride inflexible,, and deaf, as Thine,
Professing Virtue, make's ev'n Virtue
hateful.
Exit.
SCENE II.
alone.
Heaven! what a Change in
Rome!—
breathe these
her
Sou
Oh! griev'd
Quirinus!
what Reproach wero Thine,
Did not thy fellow Gods disdain to note us!
Rome
has no Remnant, now, of
Roman
Greatness:
Sold, or seduced, we give up Claim by Claim,
Till even our Virtues are engros'd by
Caesar!
O, Souls of long lost Glory!
Fabii! Decii
O, all ye
Pompey's! Scipio's! Cato's!
hear me!
Re-kindle, in my Breast, your patriot Lights:
And live, once more in
Brutus!—
fill this Heart,
With
Caesar
's Fire—but, let it flame, for
Rome.
SCENE III.
BRUTUS, TORBILIUS
Torbilius!
Thou intrud'st on my Retirement:
The Muse, and my sad Heart are, now, not social,
Cassius
approaches.
—There's
a Name, indeed,
Unsocial!—Every
Muse
wou'd start, to hear it.
Thou wrong'st him.
—Cassius
is a noble
Roman.
There is a
Jaundice,
in thy Judgment,
Brutus,
That lends him Golden Colour, from thy own:
I know him, to the Soul.—Have sounded all
The Shallows of his Envy;—and I
cou'd,
But that an
Oath,
injoin'd, has bound my Tongue,
Convince thee, that he dares assault thy
Honour;
And plots, to blast thee to the World, for ever.
Who bound thee, by such Oath?
Calphurnia
's Piety.
What had
Calphurnia
's Piety to do
With Plots? and Oaths? and Secrecy? and
Brutus?
Earnest,
herself,
to warn endanger'd
Brutus
With Consequence, she fear'd,
my
Words might
lose,
She claims your instant Ear:—Be swift—incline it.
Shun the too near Approach of
Cassius,
hither:
And, hast'ning to the House of
Caesar, weigh,
What her Wish forms, to guard thy Fame, and Virtue.
Thou art too bold,
Torbilius:—
Tell
Calphurnia,
I, best, myself, defend my Honour's Claims:
And grasp, too hard, to need a
Woman
's Aiding.
Torbilius!—
Rome
has
lost
thee.
—Caesar
's Bounties
Have brib'd thy
Gratitude,
to slander Honesty.
Ill am I known, where, most, my Heart lies open,
If, after all my rash Contempts of
Power,
Brutus
can doubt me
Venal:—
Yet, doubt on:
No
undeserv'd
Reproach
adheres
to Virtue.
No Matter what bold Slander wounds
Torbilius,
Where he, who Wrongs him, has the Rights of Friendship.
I will not see
Calphurnia.
Oh! revoke those fatal Words, lest
By the Gods! I will not; till
Cassius,
and his Friends have, first, been heard.
Cassius
is
Caesar
's Enemy.
But I am
Brutus;-
and thou know'st me
Caesar
's
Friend.
Let that Truth, known, content thee.
—No.—It cannot:
Brutus not
fearing, I must fear for
Brutus.
Greatness of Soul, confiding in
itself,
Exposes an unguarded Side, to Baseness.
What woud'st thou lead me to?
To one kind
Promise:
I urge it but to
save
thee.—I conjure thee;
By every Claim of long, untir'd Adherence!
By every Recompence, thou ow'st my Dangers!
By every grateful Sense of every Duty!
Love, Friendship, Reverence, Faith, Advice, and Service!
Promise, whatever dire Result the Gods
Permit,—for
Cassius
comes on no light Errand!
Previous to any
Deed,
thy will may purpose,
To hear
my
Thoughts:—Intrust me with thy own:
And teach my willing Hand, and Heart, to aid thee.
I see the strangely
mov'd:—
I will, by Heaven!
Intrust thee, unreserv'd, and seek thy Counsel.
Bark on, ye Dogs of envy! Bark, in vain:
Brutus
is Safe, and Spotless
Exit
Torbilius.
Alone.
—Caesar
's
Graces.
Win every Heart! and no
Corruption
's Power
Out-bribes
the native Sweetness of his
Pity.
SCENE IV.
BRUTUS, CASSIUS, DECIMUS, CINNA, CASCA.
Hail! death-devoted
Brutus! Romes last
Friend!
Guardian, in vain, of our expiring Liberty!
Caesar,
To-morrow, marches hence, a
King.
What are
Rome
's Prospects,
then?
Taxes, and Chains.
Brutus,
farewell,
for ever
Embracing.
—Life grows Shameful,
Where Freedom is resign'd, and Man's a
Slave.
Can
Cassius
feel Despair?
When
Rome
Despairs.
When even her
Soul—
her
Brutus!—
Breaths for
Caesar▪
No Force on Earth, but
our
unshaken Hearts
Held back this bold Invader.
Caesar
's too
Wise,
To spare our Lives, who live,—to shake his Throne.
Escaping us, he meets but
Men:—
Not
Romans.
Oh! Honour, Virtue, and the Rights of
Law!
Tis
past:—
The Laws
have been.—
Honour, and Virtue
Are, now, the public Jest of penfion'd Parasites:
Who
sell
Submission, and receive back—Scorn.
Rome,
and the World are fall'n!—'tis
Caesar,
All!
All, that Six Hundred bleeding Years have gain'd,
Thrown, at one Cast, to
Caesar!—
Why had Times,
Like these, a
Brutus?—
Grac'd with fruitless Virtues?
If I have Virtues
—Why
shou'd They be
Fruitless?
Join every Power, above?—To bless that Question!
Hear yon licentios Noise!
Shouts at a Distance
—Curse the vile Sound!
'Tis Breath of Adulation!
Rome
's lost Gods
Expell'd!—And Insense paid to human
Pride!
Shouts again.
Again!—Those Shouts are Insult.
—Cimber
comes,
And, if I read him Rightly, in his
Look,
Caesar
's Attempts
succeeds;
for, see! he's
Angry.
SCENE V.
BRUTUS, CASSIUS, DECIMUS, CINNA, CASCA, CIMBER.
Tell us, what
wou'd
they?
—Slavery,
they wou'd
Have we a
King,
in
Rome?
Have we a
Freeman?
What call you
Caesar?
Less,
when he dares be
more.
Caesar
high-seated,—Sovereign of the Slaves!
Shone, from the Capitol, as who wou'd say,
Make me a
God,
and
Rome
shall shake with Thunder:
Up, from Ten Thousand bribe-attesting Throats,
Flew purchas'd Gratulation: "Hail, Great
Caesar!
"Rome
's dread Avenger!—Fate of punish'd
Parthia!
"Star of thy Country's Hope? And War's brave Guider!".
Timely, to cool this Madness, at its Height,
So Heaven decreed it!—In Stalks
Antony;
Blast him, deaf Genius of devoted
Rome!
A cushion'd
Crown,
and
Scepter,
sham'd his Hands:
Yet, was his venal Eye fix'd bold, on
Caesar.
Down sunk, at once, the Tempest of Applause;
Hush'd, as a Coward, in his Midnight Bush,
The sick'ning People
flatter'd
into Silence;
He,
'midst a horrid Glare of wide-stretch'd Eyes,
Unheeding, on his Master's Brow, set, soft,
The regal
Gew-gaw:—
Then, with abject Knee,
Bent, for
inflructive
Homage,
—be
a KING,
He cry'd—and reign o'er
Rome,
that rules the
World,
Caesar,
mean while, who watch'd the public Eye,
And read Reluctance, Grief, and Terror,
there;
Starting indignant with well-acted Scorn,
Hurl'd, from his Front, the
uninclining
Toy;
And cry'd—"I am
not King,
my Friend—but
Caesar.
O, Truth!—Beyond all Pride of kingly Greatness!
Then, general Joy new-voic'd the gaping Press;
And shook the distant Roofs, with loud Concurrence;
Even
Antony,
then, blush'd.
—And did not
Caesar?
Caesar
smil'd sweet
Contempt:—
And then,
again,
Th' unfeeling Fools, more charm'd, renew'd their Shouting:
I laugh'd, aloud: to mark him thanking
Rome,
For
finding
Virtues in him, which he had not!
At length, disdainful of the hard Constraint,
Parting, he frown'd
Sincerity.—
The Rest
You'l learn, when I do.
What means That?
—Anon,
The Senate sits.
What then?
Why then, Six Hours
May pass, betwixt
his
pushing back the Crown,
And our exacted Votes, to bid him
take
it.
Holds he that Hope?
Yes: And who
helps
us?
—Death.
Death is, indeed, the Slave's last Hope:—but, he,
Who dares embrace that Help, might find a better.
While my doom'd Country had a Gasp for Life,
I struggled on, to
live:—
Now, World, farewell!
No God sustain'd me, to
support
the State:
But, to
die, with
it, still, is left to Freedom.
To Heaven's imperial
Rome, from ours,
I go;
There,
no bold
Caesar
sways:
—There Pompey
serves!
No
Roman,
there, need blush to owne a
Master:
Where even a
Cato
finds, and fears, a
Lord!
These will I follow, thus.
Drawing his Sword.
Disarming him.
—Follow we
none:
'Tis ours, to lend, not borrow, brave Example.
'Tis ours, to stem the Tide of a bad World,
And justify to
Time
the
Roman
Greatness.
Much is to
Anger
due—but more to
Rome.
Cato
had died, unblam'd—first,
killing Caesar;
But, turning on
himself,
his erring Sword,
He fell,
unjustly:—
For, he punish'd
Innocence.
What
can
we, in a World, despairing, round us?
Shewing a Billet.
See! What the Friends of Liberty expect!
See! What they
hope
from
Romans!
This Reproach
I, too, have met with:—And 'twas hard to bear!
Cassius!—
'twas harder, far,—to have
deserv'd
it.
Good
Talkers
might attract a
Gown-man
's Praise:
And had Time
Ears—
fine Words were Marks of
Wisdom:
But lose this Day, no Orator, in
Rome,
Must be admir'd, but
Caesar.
—E're this Day
Yet passes,—Twenty Tyrant's
Fortunate,
As ours—but never
Greatness
equall'd
Caesar!
Might expiate, with their
Lives,
their bold Ambition.
Ay! That's a Flower of Speech,
my
Rhetoric reaches!
Rome lives
again! She breath'd, in that rais'd Voice!
And
Brutus
has receiv'd her.—
—Fatal
Name
To Tyrants!
—Brutus,
to assert his
Race,
Speaks the dire Duty, which
We
dar'd but
think.
My Friend has reconcil'd me to myself;—
If there is future
Glory
due to
Cassius,
Brutus
bestows it, all—BRUTUS! and ROME!
Flow mix'd,
ye reverend Names! down Time's dark Stream!
By Ages emulating Ages, bless'd!
Decimus! Cinna! Casca! Patriot's! Roman
's!
Join your Sword's Aid: Obey this gener'ous Leader.
Live to approve, and to support his Vengeance;
And drive Dejection from the Heart of Virtue,
All
Rome
will think, and Act, with
Roman Brutus.
Born the Sustainers of patrician Honour,
Senates,
despis'd, wou'd fall with double
Shame,
Surviv'd, by their Despiser.—
—See a
List,
Shinning with Names, of
Rome
's distinguish'd Sons!
Associates, All, to strike one Glorious Blow!
Taking
the
Paper
Soft,
Cassius!—
have a Care! nor arm Revenge
Too Strongly:—lest it look, perhaps, like Baseness.
One
were enough, to bid a Tyrant
die,
Who dar'd Himself,
die with
him.
Roman's
numberless
Stand, now prepar'd for Summons.
Summon
none:
Shou'd they be
sold
to
Caesar,
they're untrusty:—
And, if they
fear
him, heartless.—
Such a
Tongue,
As Cicero
's.
No.—let us list no
Praters;
These Speechmen of the
Senate
range but Periods:
Tropes
are their
Javelins:—Climax
forms their
Ranks:
And, when they
charge,
'tis with some smart
Harangue.
Twill be Renown enough, for these
Tongue—Cohorts,
To praise our Bravery, when it meets
Success:
Or, if it
fails,
teach pliant Law to
teize
us.
Enough!- then,
Caesar
finds us, in the
Senate.—
There, be it lawful, O, immortal Guiders!
To consecrate
this Sword,
that, once, was
Cato
's,
To
Cato
's Death, reveng'd! and murder'd
Pompey
's.
Draws.
All the
Conspitators
draw their Swords.
Now, I
will
ive.—Li
, now, becomes a
Roman.
No.—Let no vain false
Hope
of
Life
deceive ye:
Know—yet despise, your
Danger.—Caesar
's Friends
Crowd his tame
Senate:—
Ardent, All! and try'd,
In Service of their Master, while the People,
The suffe'ring People! pleas'd at once, and wretched!
Doat on the Tyrant's
Heart,
whose
Hand
they fear!
Think, too, tis CAESAR, we presume to wound:
Caesar!
who aw'd an
Army,
with his
Frown!
Our Death, in the Attempt, is fix'd as Fate:
But,
what
a Death!—How to be wish'd, and envied!
Dying, that
unborn Rome
may live, in Liberty!
How will our Deaths endear yon aweful
Capitol!
That Seat of our Oppression, doom'd by Heaven,
The Scene of our Revenge!
—But, shou'd the People—
Why let the People
prate:—
So People
will—
Bless the Light Murmurings of their hungry Love!
Poor
Gnats!
They know, tis Summer, now, with
Caesar:
Cloud but his Sunshine—all their Buzzing ceases.
Kneel, gener'ous Friends:
They kneel,
Brutus
continues standing.
Raise your Right Hands, to Heaven;
Swear—
by the all-dreaded Powers, to wait
my
Call:
Nor, till I
sound
him, touch the
Life
of
Caesar.—All the
Conspirators.
We
swear.—
—But shou'd he—(some kind God restrain him!)
Force my afflicted Hand, to point the Way.—
Then,—by that thin, pale, Flight of Roman Ghosts,
Whose hov'ring Forms skim o'er th' unburied Bones,
Which the wan Moon sees whit'ning twelve lost Fields!
Their Murd'rer, if he Reigns, in
Rome.
All
shall
die!
Brutus,
kneel
with
us.
—Rome
exempts no Knee:
Kneels.
Blast, Heaven! The Man, who spares a Tyrant's Life!
Be he Son, Patron, Brother, Friend, or—Father!
Or
Father?—Cassius!
Son, Friend, Father, Brother:
Tyrants can Claim no Kindred: They renounce
All
social
Ties:—And
hate a hating
World.
The expanding Soul, that swells a
Roman
Breast.
Stretch'd beyond Rights of Blood,
attones
'em,
All,
By Virtue, Glory, Liberty, and Law.
Be
it, then, SWORN.—
All
—By Earth, and Heaven, we
swear.
Soul-shaking Oath!—tis past, and, from this Moment,
Rise and put up their Swords.
No Man has Parent, Child, or Friend—but
Rome,
If there, among us,
shrinks
one recreant Slave,
Curse him, ye Gods! For every Guilt of
Caesar!
And never let his
Race
know Comfort, more.
loud Thunder.
Hark! the confirming Powers
approve
my Curse—
Or, testify
Dislike,
in Peals of Thunder!
Let 'em
call
on: The Brave, they know, are ready,
We meet, then, at the
Capitol.
—Haste,
Decimus—
With heedful Caution, Summon each great Name,
That gilds our Glorious List:—previous, we meet,
(Immortal
Brutus!)
in thy aweful
Grot.
There, shalt thou fan their Fire; confirm their Hearts:
Unite their Purpose, and instruct their Hands:
That one concurring Spirit may direct,
And no Confusion Rise, to blast our Vengeance.
'Tis dreadful!—But, 'tis
necessary:—
Mark!
When you pale
Sun,
that, with receding Ray,
Starts from our notic'd Purpose!—When that
Sun,
Slow-measuring, sheds an
Hour—
This private Key
Admits you, thro' the Grove:—Be punctual All.
Gives
Cassius
a Key, then, advances to a Statue of Cato.
Cato!
Lost
Soul
of Freedom!
Witness
forme!
Here, I divest my Heart of Love, Grief, Pity,
Of every tender call of pleading
Nature,
That moves too soft a Pang.
The Thunder repeated.
—Again!—
'Tis Strange!
Why hangs this infelt
Weight,
upon my Purpose?
Can it be
terrible.—
To die for
Rome!
What has he left to
fear,
who saves his
Country!
Enter
Marcellus,
hastily
Break off—or, be prevented:
—Caesar comes.
Now, let him die.
—Avoid him, thro' that Gallery.
Exeunt Conspirators.
SCENE VI.
BRUTUS, CAESAR.
With whom dost thou retire?
—With banish'd Liberty.
Vain, honest Purposer! Made weak by Virtue!
Thou wrong'st the Friend of every Wish, thou form'st!
Cited by
Antony,
why cam'st thou not?
Or why,
not
coming, was Reproach thought needful?
With insolent
Contempt
of Power above thee?
Find'st thou Delight, in living to
offend?
There's not a Name, in all thy private Friendships,
That is not mark'd, in public, as
my
Foe.
When Foes to
Caesar
are the Friends of
Rome,
May Heaven inspire his Will, to love their Counsel!
Speak out:—The
just Enjoy
the Slanderer's
Malice,
And weigh their Virtue's Force, by bad Men's
Censure.
All Men confess the Force of
Caesar
's Virtues:
Resistless Virtues!—They
endear
the
Chains
Of a submitting World, that smiles, and suffers!
Thou art, thyself, in Chains, and see'st it not;
Thou art that poorest of blind Slaves—a
Tool!
Whose Bluntness works for Wills, that scorn thy Promptness.
So work'd they, once, on
Pompey.—
Weak well-meaner.
Driven,
yet, too proud to
follow!—
Had
he
conquer'd,
His flexile Yoke had gall'd, both Men, and Laws:
Then,
what had
Brutus
been?
—Lord of
one Dagger.
Fell mind!—And can there none be found, for
Caesar?
Strike, first—and blast the distant Possibility!
No.
—Brutus!—
There's a Power
forbids
that Blow:
Read this, blind Wanderer!—Know
thyself,
and
me.
Gives him
Servilia's
Letter.
Caesar,
I
die:—
Punish'd by Heaven's just Hand,
At once, my
Life
forsakes me, and my
Love.
Pity, when I am gone, and think of
—Brutus:
The Life,
you
gave him
[Starts]
will deserve your Care.
Farewell!—And, for the
Father,
may the Gods,
To the Son's Heart, transfer the Mother's Love!
Servilia!—
Heaven,
Servilia!—
wrote
she
this?
She
did—
and, if I
wake, Rome
sleeps forever.
I had not thought, till my return from
Parthia,
To trust thee with this Secret, of thy Birth:
But to protect Thee, from the Willes of
Cassius,
I claim Thee, and Precipitate my Purpose.
Offers to embrace him, who starts back
Rome!
Virtue! Nature!
Nature! young Man, call it
By its sincerer Titles? call it
Pride,
Self-soothing.—
Hurl your Bolts, ye Gods! at
Faction!
Faction!—that finds a Power to blot out
Nature!
Spare an astonished
Wretch,
who lives too long.
Is there, who
fears
to be the Son of
Caesar?
Wretch,
say'st thou?—to be born the World's
next Heir,
And reap the Laurels of a Hundred Victories?
Oh,
Caesar!—
Lab'ring with a
Will
to speak,
Some infelt Horror checks thy rising Accents.
Caesar!
Speak like my Son.
Wou'd I were
dead.
Sounds
Death
more soft than Son?
Such if I
am,
Brutus,
unbow'd to
Kings,
may kneel to
Caesar.
Kneels.
On.—
Offering his Sword
—Kill me;—or, forbear to be a
King.
Thy very
Soul's
a Rebel:—not alone
To
Power,
but ev'en to
Blood:—
unatural Traitor!
Rise, and repent:—and, when thou think'st, like
Man,
Be own'd
Rome
's Son, and mine:—till then, be
Brutus,
Turning to go.
Holding his Robe.
Oh! stay.—I never can quit Claim to
Caesar:
Hear, if a
Father,
with a father's Ear;
Or, judge with a Friend's Heart, and ease my Horror.
Leave me.—My Heart is
Adamant:—
Away;—
My Blood grows warm against thee: Dread thy danger.
Be gone—or, I shall catch Disdain, from Thine,
Till, conqu'ring
Pity,
to repel
Presumption,
To punish Insolence, I push back
Nature.
Caesar,
at least, was
born,
to govern
Brutus.
He was—he was—but
not
to govern
Rome.
Headstrong
Enthusiast!
Stubborness, like Thine,
Embroils Republicks; and makes Tyrants
needful:
Go: join thy savage Friends: chase
Fear
from Faction:
Bid Guilt sleep safe, in my
Contempt
of Treachery:
Their
Conqueror stands subdued, by his own
Mercy:
—Yet bid their Blindness
learn,
when Claims contend,
And Rights invaded rouse resenting Realms,
'Tis
Fierceness, in the Free,
most, hazards Freedom.
And Liberty is
lost
to punish Pride.
Exit
Caesar.
Rising
Let me not
leave
him, tho' Despair has caught me:
But, following, sigh for
Rome—
and live for
Caesar.
Why was I born to
think,
and be
unbless'd,
To licence Reason, is to forfeit Rest:
He, who assumes
Distinction,
calls for Woe;
Peace is a Cottage Claim, and loves the Low.
Nor Shame, nor Trust, nor Envy,
finds
us, there!
Hearts,
fill'd with Quiet,
leave no Void, for
Care.
End of the Third Act.
ACT. IV.
SCENE I.
A Grot in the Garden of
Brutus.
CALPHURNIA, TORBILIUS.
'TIS near the appointed Hour:
I judge, tis
past.
Then Heaven, that loves its
Likeness,
wake for
Caesar,!
In this Out-Grot, they meet:—In that adjoining,
Curio
has close conceal'd his chosen Guard,
Each Moment strength'ning, by admitted Files:
Hence vocal Windings, which pervade the Rock,
Swell whisp'ring Sounds to Loudness.
How
look'd Portia?
Sad—
till she heard your animating Name:
Then, like a Sun-beam, radiant thro' a Mist,
She smil'd away her Anguish.
—At her Approach,
Leave me
Torbilius.
—Who then guards you hence?
I mark'd th' impending
Ivy,
o'er the Arch—
Grieve, not tho' Pride repell'd thy honest Purpose,
Nor fear the endangering Fate of stubborn
Brutus:
My Friendship, in alarming
Portia
's dread,
Will caution, and preserve him.—Go:—she's here.
[Exit
Toroilius
bowing to
Portia,
whom he meets ent'ring.
SCENE II.
CALPHURNIA, PORTIA.
This mournful Grot ne're touch'd my Taste till now:
But present Friends bring
Sunshine
to the Soul.
And Seats of Horror change to Scenes of Bliss.
'Twas fortunate, thou call'dst thy
Portia, hither!
Brutus
is sad to-day, and Purposes
Retirement, here, beneath this sullen Shade:
Our Presence will relieve him.
—Stop
him,
Portia!
Let me not find him:—save my Eyes that Horror!
Good Heaven!—what has he done?
Stay not, to ask:
Even that lost Moment may be
fatal
to him.
Go; bid him guard his Ear from cruel
Cassius:
Time will permit no more; go warn him—save him.—
If thou delay'st a Moment, Fate o'ertakes him;
And staying but, till
Cassius
comes—he
dies.
Be clear in Pity to my beating Heart;
Brutus
has been traduced.—He loaths all Falsehood▪
Shunning the Falsehood loath'd, he may be safe.
He comes.—Now, hear him justify his Fame,
From this foul Charge—and vindicate thy Goodness.
No.—Tis thy Weight must shake his concious Soul.
Save his endanger'd Name, and bless my Notice.
I cannot
move:—
forgive my trembling
Knees,
My Heart restrains their Power.
Alas! I pity Thee:
Rest,
and recall thy Spirits, and receive him.
Aside.
Now, to my fatal Post.—
Exit.
SCENE III.
alone.
After an astonish'd Pause.
—Some dreadful Meaning!
And my too wakeful
Fears
confirm it
just:
Cassius,
of late, with warm, assiduous Art,
Flatters my
Brutus,
whom his Envy
shun'd:
Cassius
is wily, proud, malicious, bitter!
Burns, with ungovern'd Hate: and brooks not
Caesar.
Associate Vice may
taint
the soundest Virtue:
And
Honour
bleeds, shou'd
Caesar
fall by
Brutus!
Not that my patriot Heart disclaims the
Roman!
I, who was born to Liberty's great Guardian,
By right of
Nature,
shun tyrannic Sway:
Yet
Brutus—
twice offending—twice forgiven,
Twice, forfeited to
Caesar
's Clemency,
His own lost rights to Justice:—shou'd he, then,
Quench the kind Light, he lives by, the rash Murderer
Kills his own Fame, and dies to every Virtue;
SCENE IV.
PORTIA, BRUTUS
Who call'd thee hither
Portia?
Rome
's kind Gods.
In Haste they summon'd, and, in Haste they left thee.
Was it, because they saw
Calphurnia
with thee?
And shun Society with
Caesar
's Friends?
Ne're may the Gods forsake the
Friends
of
Caesar,
Since
Brutus
more than all Men, such, by Gratitude,
Merits Protection from the Powers, who
love
it.—
Does
Cassius
move in Grots?
Why ask'st thou that?
Romans,
who meditate the Death of
Caesar,
And owe him not their
Lives,
may mean
no Murder.
Torbilius
is a Traitor:
—Rome
is
bought,
And all those guardian Gods, who lov'd her Liberty.
Forsake her, and support the Cause of
Caesar.
Rome
bought?—and Traitors?—If I watch thy Look:
Rage, and Despair, have dim'd thy Eyes with Anguish,
If I regard thy Language,—Death dwells,
there,
And, like a Groan, at Midnight, frights my Fancy.
Stay I would ask.
Ask nothing;—'tis a Time
For
Action:—
keep thy
Words
for idler moments
[is going.
Holding him.
Hark! tis thy Fate, that calls the.
I
have
heard it:
Why woud'st thou thus restrain me?
-thoughtless Portia!
Be wiser.—All the Lives of
Rome
's best Friends
Demand me!
Theirs
the Fate, that
calls!—
Away:—
Honour, and Oaths, and Death, and Glory
—call
me.
Still holding him.
By Heaven! you go not, till you first relieve me,
From this dark Torment, which your Words implant:
I'll know,
what
Friends? what Oaths?
Loosen thy Hold:
Nay, if thou
stay'st
me, my unwilling Strength
Must break ungently from this ill-tim'd Rashness.
Forces himself away
With a Dagger
Turn,
Brutus!
turn,—regard this
silent
Pleader?
If thou woud'st wish to spare the Breast of
Portia,
Dread the determin'd Hand of
Cato's Daughter.
What wou'd thy Madness hint? what means that dagger▪
Pointing a Dagger to her Breast.
Stir, not a Step.—Thy first vain Start to seize me,
Plunges Deliverance to my rescued
Heart,
Which unconfiding
Brutus
loves to
torture.
What would thy Soul-distracting Purpose frame?
The bloody Secret, thou conceal'st from
Portia,
Thou shar'st, with every vulgar Friend of
Rome.
Suspended, and amaz'd.
Why woud'st thou bid me
license
future Scorn,
To haunt my hated Name?—Make me not
faithless,
Lest
Songs
teach Times to come my Hearts fond weakness;
That, to a
Woman
's Tongue, resign'd a
Secret,
Which sunk the World's last Hope;—and gave up
Rome.
Where
sleeps
the Spirit of thy stern Forefather?
Whose awful Firmness, sculptur'd into Life,
Frowning thro'
Stone,
disclaims degenerate
Rome!
Teach him, some
God!
that CATO call'd
Me
Daughter▪
Brutus
believes me
light,
like
vulgar
Woman!
Oh!—'twas for
this,
the sorrowing Shade resought me;
Hinted Futurity, through mystic Night,
And shew'd me,
Brutus
wou'd be Mine
—no more.
Find, in that dreadful Warning, how HE judg'd:
Feel, what he thought of his own
Portia
's
Daring.
Trusting the Fortitude, he gave—HE knew,
That
Cato
's Daughter could not dread to
hear
The worst, that
Cato
's Spirit dar'd to
tell.
Generous, I know thou art;—But thou art
Woman:
Secrets of State, and Blood, o'erload your Minds.
Tis the false Reasoning of a Sex, that
wrongs
us:
Why
shou'd a Secret's weight o'erload the Heart
Of
Portia—
yet, disturb not that of
Brutus?
All, thou can'st
wish
me, thou shalt find, I am:
All, thou can'st
suffer,
thou shalt feel, I
dare.
Poorly, perhaps, thou think'st, the Fear of
Wounds,
And
Pain,
and
Sword's,
and threat'ning
Death,
might shake me!
—Judge,—
by this willing Blow—
Strikes the Dagger into her Left Arm, which
Brutus,
advancing swiftly, snatches from her.
"—off—off—by Heaven
Thy
Failure
had transferr'd it to my
Heart.
Learn,
from this bleeding
Proof,
that,—when
I
shrink
from Thoughts of
Death,
I fear not for my
own.
What has thy Pride's ill-grounded Rashness done!
Oh! let me
Mend
that error of thy Hand:—
Bind up
th' ungentle Wound, and call
Aid
to thee.
Never!—tho'Death
divide
us!—Never—never
Shall
Portia
veil this Mark, how
Brutus lov'd
her;
Till, to Redeem her
Life,
he trusts her
Vertue.
Perish
the
Pride
of such a dear-bought Fame,
As costs my widow'd Heart the
Life
of
Portia!
—Read that dire
List.
Gives her the Roll.
Till my Return
conceal
it:
And weigh those mighty Names, against ONE
Caesar.
Permitting
Brutus
to bind her Arm with his Handkerchief.
Must
Caesar die?
—Twas
sworn.
—Did
Brutus
swear.
He
did:—
A dreadful Oath!—ask
what, hereafter▪
Bound to the
Gods,
those angry Souls of
Rome.
Submitting to
my
Hand, the public Vengeance,
Kill Caesar,
instant,—or permit his
Life,
As
Brutus
warrants, or with-holds, the Blow.
Then,
Caesar cannot
die.—He
pardoned Brutus.
Oh! I cou'd tell thee Wonders!—But the Help,
I fly to send thee.—and
their
forfeit Lives,
Whose Rashness I must
warn,
permit no more.
Portia, farewell:—
If e're we meet again,
I will
complain,
of thy impatient Ardor,
And thou shalt justify the Heart of
Brutus.
Exit hastily
SCENE V.
PORTIA. (alone.)
Live,
Caesar!
live, and reign!—Tho'
Cato's Blood.
Calls for Revenge;—and a whole People's Rights,
Usurp'd,
absolve
one bold Assumer's Fall;—
The Hand of
Brutus
must not
stain Rome
's Justice;
Nor, with detested Murder, pay back
Mercy.
Peruses the Paper.
Heaven! what confederate Power! what Names, least likely,
Start from this dreadful Roll, and threaten
Caesar!
—Wou'd I were still a
Stranger
to this Secret!
Yet, that unknown,
—who
had
dissuaded Brutus?
Is
he dissuaded?—let me
weigh
that Question.
Who
knows but, while I
speak,
th' appointed Hour
Impends!—It DOES!—Farewell, he said—and
left
me!
Farewell!—
then added
—if
again we meet!
IF!—Heaven! what meant that
if?-
tis plain he
doubted,
Whether we ever
were
to meet, or No!
SCENE VI.
To
PORTIA,
enter
CALPHURNIA,
with
TORBILIUS, CURIO,
and
Soldiers.
Never,
unhappy
Portia!—
Far divided
Be Innocence like
Thine,
from Guilt and Murder!
Teach thy reluctant Heart, to
give up Brutus:
For never will thy Eyes behold him more.
Portia
fix'd in Amazement, lets fall the Roll, which
Torbilius
takes up, looks into, and offers to
Calphurnia.
Let not the hated Scroll pollute my Touch!
Fly with it, hence—bear it, with Speed to
Caesar:
Tell him,
Torbilius!
how the Gods have sav'd him:
Happy, to miss thy Name, lov'd
Brutus,
here!
Well-vers'd in
Caesar
's
Pity,—
glad, I go.
Exit.
SCENE VII.
PORTIA, CALPHURNIA, SOLDIERS.
Oh!—
Wife of
Brutus!
—Chill'd to
Stone,
by Horror,
Kindly, thou
wak'st
me, with that powerful Name.
And my recov'ring Breath implores thy Mercy.
The
Wife
of
Caesar
speaks: Absolve her Justice:
Had the too dreadul Danger been
Calphurnia
's,
Then, had my willing Pity met thy Prayer:
Sav'd, whom thou lov'st, and
lost
a
Third
vain Mercy,
But thou hast
heard
it!
Brutus
murders
Caesar!
—Yes
Cassius!—
bloody
Cassius!—
I have wrong'd thee:
The Foe but
wish'd
Revenge:—The Friend
resolv'd
it.
What does thy angry Virtue mean to do?
—Blast his vow'd Guilt, and force him to be safe.
Round, from the neighb'ring Grot, rush
Caesar
's friends,
Rapid for Interception:—If they find him,
Try thy wish'd Power: reclaim his Will, from
Cassius,
Whom if his Fate has driven him, now, to
join,
By all my Fear for
Caesar
's Life—he
dies!
Detain
him, all ye Powers, who pity
Woe!
Enter
Curio
with other Soldiers.
Vain was our speed:—There is an Iron Door,
That, opening to a Vault, beneath these Rocks,
Leads toward th'
Aemilian Baths:—
'scap'd thro' that Passage,
E'ere now, he rises in the Shade of
Rome.
Portia
faints.
To a Soldier.
See! th' unhappy Sufferer faints!—support her:
To
Curio,
in a lower Voice.
Mean Time, while slow-returning
Sense
forsakes
Her pitied Ear, whose Sighs my Soul deplores,
Curio!—
The
blank Commision, Caesar
gave thee,
Claims, from
my
Hand, a
Name,
to guide thy Duty:
Receives the Table-Book, from
Curio,
writes in, and returns it to him.
Brutus
becomes the
Void,
with bloody Grace;
Take it, and know thy Hour.
Bless'd, ye kind Rocks!
Bless'd, be your guardian
Echos!
That have swell'd
Death's Murmurings to my Ear:—If my Strength fail
Home, on the Wings of Love, and Fear, I'll fly: [not,
Brutus
shall
live;
and every God shall guard him.
Starts up and goes out.
Restrain her,
Curio!—
The preventive Love,
This weeping Vertue bears her sentenc'd Lord,
Wou'd warm him from the Fate, his Guilt compells.
Curio
brings her back.
Come—guide th' afflicted Trembler to
my
Palace.
No.—Kill me,
here:—
Earth has no Place, so fit
For
Portia
's Death, as where her
Brutus
left her:
Art thou a
Soldier?
hear me:—All the Brave
Have Hearts to weep the Woe, their Hands have caus'd.
But
Man
is
cruel.—
Hear,
Calphurnia!—
Thou
Art Woman:—Thou art
Caesar
's tender
Wife.
Measure another's Mis'ery, by thy own.
Pause but, to think thyself the Wife of
Brutus;
'Twill plead
my
Cause, and force thee to forgive.
Cou'd
Portia
so forgive the sought, sworn,
Death
Of Him, beyond whose Life she shuns to live?
Knock at thy own Heart's Door, and find mine justified:
Yet, bleeds my social Soul, and feels thy Fate;
Poor, suffering
Excellence!
And wretch, unguilty!
Oh! I can never by a Wretch, by
Thee!
I am thy
Friend:-
Dwell on that Thought,
Calphurnia:
Even, when the CRADLE claim'd me, I was
Thine:
Sorrows, and Pains,
must
come:—They come to All,
But, sure! they shou'd not come from those, we
love.
They
cannot
come from Love:-They
may
from Justice.
Let
Foes,
and
Strangers
be, severely
Just:
Friendship declines to punish, tho' 'tis wrong'd.
Think of the
present
Hour.
Think of the
Past;
When pratling Childhood, yet, had learnt no Power,
To lisp its little Meanings, into Sense;
Stammering our untaught Instinct, Side by Side,
We wander'd, fearful of each other's
Fall,
And tripp'd, and smil'd, and totter'd, into
Love.
Scarce felt our
rip'ning
Years a Sense of
Woe:
'Twas
Foreign,
all—for all, within, was Peace.
While the divided City, round us, glow'd
With cruel Discord, and domestic Rage;
Even, while our dearest Friends took different Sides,
And Civil Fury shook the partial Soul:
We,
still superior, to a
Nation
's Hate!
Smil'd on—confided, mix'd embracing Minds;
And all
our
Contest was
—which,
most, shou'd
Love.
Why woud'st thou, thus, recall past Hours of Joy?
Those were the sun-shine Days, of Mirth, and Peace.
Now,
'tis all win'try Darkness,—War, and Blood!
Brutus
is
dear
to
Portia.
—Not
less
dear
Is Godlike
Caesar,
to
Calphurnia
's Soul.
If
Brutus lives.
—Caesar,
he swore, must
die.
Cruel Impatience! Not to
hear
Distress!
Patient I heard, till he confess'd it
sworn:
Heard, till he told thee,—each dire Murderer dar'd
Vow
Caesar dead,—
when
Brutus
Wills it done.
Brutus
will
not.
—Away- 'twas
Sworn,
'twas SWORN.
Hear
that,
all-judging Heaven! And think, by
whom
!
Ingratitude
's a Guilt, that startles Nature,
And, with a Fury's Foulness, stains Mankind!
Constrain her,
Curio!—
Force her gently, on:
Stay, Stay—I
will
be heard,
—cruel Calphurnia!
Alas! What woud'st thou say?
—Wou'd I cou'd tell!
Wou'd I were skill'd in Woe, to touch thy Pity!
Perhaps, I shou'd be
Humbler?—
Teach me, tell me.
Oh! I'm not stubborn.—If the
Queen
of
Caesar,
Waits for the bended Knee; and, looking
down
To suppliant Homage, tastes the
Flatterer
's Prayer:
See!
Portia,
prostrate on the Dust, implores thee,
Kneels.
See her Soul agoniz'd,—and ease her Terrors.
Grant him
but
Life! Spare his mistaking Virtue:
Banish him—far from
Rome,
and Power, and
Caesar.
To
unhous'd Seythia
's bleakest Wilds, expose him:
Leave him one—one
—but one!
Sad, humble
Shelter!
His
Portia
's
aching
Bosom!—Never—ah?—Never,
Will
she
forsake him!—Off, ye glittering Trifles!
Tears off her Jewels.
Ye
Toys!
That help to blind unbless'd
Distinction!
Come—in
their
Place—Despair! Affliction! Penitence!
Be these
my
Claims!—For these my
Brutus
shares in.
Shuddering, and bare, I'll trace th' unsheltry Desert
Tread the bleak Wilderness of
Want,
unsighing,
Unwishing
Comfort,
and content with
Pain.
Sleepless, myself, I'll watch his weary Slumbers,
Feed his pale
Fire,
hang o'er his heedless Bosom:
Break ye rude
Snow-drifts,
which the Storm blows round him,
And love him into
Taste
of safe Distress.
To the Soldiers.
Why will ye wound Compassion, by Delay?
The Sorrows of a
suffering Friend,
are Torture,
None, but a
Devil,
at once can
cause,
and
bear.
Relieve me, and, with tenderest Force, obey.
To the Soldiers,
Reverence, ye Slaves of Power! The Race of
Cato:
His
unsubmitting Soul survives, in
mine:
And swells against Compulsion.
Soldiers step back.
—Dare not think,
I dread to
die.—
But
know,
that
Portia
's Death
Shall be the
Choice
of
Portia.
At a Signal from
Calphurnia,
they seize her Hands.
—Hope, as soon,
To claim
impassive Spirit!—
High Disdain,
Resisting
Insult,
at a Thousand Doors,
Can let out Life, and laugh at vain
Restraint!
I will, with stubborn Pain, imprison Breath,
And burst, indignant, from a World, that holds me.
I will, on stony Pavements, hard and cold,
As deaf
Calphurnia!
Dash my dizzy Brain:
I'll swallow
Fire:—
Rend, with impatient Teeth,
This suffering Flesh, and plunge from hated
Light:
Unhand me, Torturers! Murderers!
—Help!
HELP!
I will extend my Voice, if
Brutns
hears not,
Till the forgetful
Gods
are rous'd to
Justice!
From the Garden.
Where
are
you? say! Whence flow'd that suffering Sound?
Blest be th' attentive Powers!—'Tis
Cassius
calls.
Without.
Haste,
Cimber!
Join
Marcellus;
guard the Postern:
Cross those
arm'd Enter'ers,
e're they reach the Grove:
Fabius!—Fulgentius!
Save me, righteous
Jove!
Scorn this new Terror. Think,
whose
conquering Fortune
Summons a Sword, untaught to wrong his Cause.
Exeunt
Curio,
and Soldiers, drawing their Swords.
Heaven guard my
Caesar,
Save my
Brutus,
Gods!
Clashing of Swords heard, without.
SCENE VIII.
CALPHURNIA, PORTIA, CASSIUS,
Entering.
Guard well those Priso'ners, while I—
Starts.
Calphurnia,
here!
Nay
then,
some Villian has betray'd our Cause.
Torbilius
bears your
listed Names
to
Caesar,
And
Brutus,
if you save him not, must die.
Freedom has Friends, in Heaven, too strong for
Caesar;
No Note of Danger, ever, more shall reach
The Tyrant's watchful Ear:
—Rome
's vow'd
Avenger's,
Now, at his Entrance to the insulted
Senate,
Led on, by Liberty's returning Gods,
Shall, there, appease them, with his offer'd
Blood.
Exit hastily.
SCENE. IX.
Aside.
Hold firm my frighted Heart! Tis but a Moment!
Suffering with Dignity, disgrace not Glory:
Ev'n, in this dreadful Turn, preserve thy Greatness
Nor let thy trembling Fears, alarm'd for
Caesar,
Lose the
Distinction,
due to
Caesar
's
Wife.
Advances to
Portia.
Portia!
A Change, like this, might prompt
weak
Minds,
To justify Despair, and give up Virtue.
But I, who trust the Gods, with good Men's Safety,
Know, that, in
Caesar
's
Triumphs,
Heaven but guards
Th' assaulted Greatness, which, Itself, inspir'd:
Rising
against Distress, Calphurnia smiles
At Traitor's Threats, and
brightens
from Eclipse.
Fearless, to
persevere
her Lord has taught her;
And, from meant Evil,
force
unwilling
Good.
All, Thou must hope, when
Caesar
's cloudless Star
Meets, and shines through, and burns above this Tempest;
Is—
that
my
Sentence may remain suspended,
Till the
Dictator
's never-wearied Mercy
Pours Penitence, on the touch'd Heart of
Brutus.
Slow Blessings come too late, and bring new Curses:
This, but a Moment past, had sav'd us, Both:
Now, Portia
rules not, here:—Tis angry
Cassius:
The proud
Conspirators
possess my Gates,
And
Brutus,
absent, leaves me to their Power,
He flew, to
warn
those rash, discover'd,
Romans:
But hasty Rage makes frustrate every Care.
—Yet,
claim
what e're my Weakness
can:—
Tis
due
To kind Forgiveness of a Friend's first Fault:
To our past Wish's, and our present Fears:
For, ah! Who knows, what dire Events
impend,
To blast eluded Hope, and make
both
wretched?
—Come, to
my
Chamber, let us sadly move,
Pensive, from Fear, and terrified for Love:
There, let us mourn
Ambition
's restless Rage,
And mutual Mise'ry mutual Help engage.
Warm, from my willing Heart, I join that Prayer,
Ne're may Ambition
waste
a good Man's Care!
Vain
are his Hopes reluctant Foes to
bless:
And still, the more his Toils, his Praise the less.
End of the Fourth
ACT.
ACT.V.
SENEI.
A Court before the Capitol.
CASSIUS, CIMBER, CINNA, CASCA.
Sure! Never Day
ran back,
like this, before!
So sweet a Dawn, so chang'd, at once to
Tempest:
Chang'd, like the
Fate
of
Rome!
Above, tis
Sunshine:
Beneath, tis, all, due
Darkness!—Senate
's Power
Shall brighten, and plebeian Clouds ride
low.
What hasty
Footstep
that?
—'Tis
Decimus!
Enter
Decimus.
Alone! Why comes not
Brutus?
—Near thy
House
I met him hast'ning to suppend our Meeting:
And urg'd the general Cause, that claim'd his Presence.
He shou'd not, yet, have heard of
Portia
's Danger,
Nor
Caesar
's
Warrant,
found.—
I told no more
Than that
Torbilius,
trusted with our
Names,
Lodg'd 'em, in
Caesar
's Hand.—So, what, before,
Was common
Glory,
common
Safety,
now,
Demanded instant:—therefore, here we met,
No more to part, till
Rome,
or
Caesar
fall.
Heard he that, firmly?
He's at Hand, to join us.
Then Fate is
Ours:
And this proud Climber's
Height
Sinks to the Level, where his Name shall rot:
Mark, with what
Ease
a Tyrant's Empire falls!
But yesterday, this Man's exalted Praise
Trod on the
Stars:
and
Caesar
was a
God!
To Day, the insulting
Foot
of
Rome
shall spurn him,
And mix his powerless Ashes with the Dust.
Hark! Was not that a
Scream?
Some Prophet
Raven,
That, conscious, on the
Dome
's high moold'ring Roos,
Feels, and foretells, that
Caesar
's Ghost is
rising.
A Noise hear'd, without, like the Fall of a Building
Some horrid
Ruin
that!
Look out, good
Decimus.
Looking
out
Amazement! The long, venerable, Line
Of Statues,—All
Rome
's old, and aweful
Chiefs
Lie fallen! And shapeless Fragments load the Floor!
Long, and loud Thunder.
Shoud not a Change, like this, that mixes Palaces
With the up heaving
Center,
at the Moment,
When our bold Purpose
moves,
alarm our Caution?
Blow, till ye burst, ye big-mouth'd
Menacers!
'Tis but a
Breeze,
to Hearts, inflam'd for Glory.
Breeze!—In such Breezes, Furies imp their Wings
Death! The Storm howls, as if the Winds felt
Envy;
And woudd
out-mouth
the Thunder!—Call ye
This
A
Breeze?—
my Feet want Steadiness!—The Pavement,
Heav'd, in disjointed Surge, rolls loose beneath me.
By Heaven, tis Glorious Ruin!—Round our Heads
Fall
Rome
's imperial Turrets:—Earthquake, and Tempest
Plow the mix'd Elements: Noises, far heard,
Live,
in the Winds, and
Voice
the frantic Air.
Day darkens: and the Eye of Heaven seems
quench'd.
Nature's wide-loos'ning Fabrick
shakes,
about us!
While
we,
with Nerves of Steel, press on to Vengeance.
Oh! my brave Friends! What future Fame is Ours!
What
Cato
cou'd not—what nor
Asia
's Aid,
Nor
Pompey
's failing
Fleets—
not tawny
Afric,
With all her Sun-defying Swarms of War!
We few—we,
Roman
Few
—have done—
this Day!
One Way, or other, we shall
serve
the
Senate:
Living, we set it
free.—
And, if we
die,
We teach it to
vote safe;—
and rail, in
private.
See! What a pensive Visage
Brutus
brings!
Save us! He looks, as if the tumbling
Statues
Had crush'd him into
Cowardice!
SCENE II.
CASSIUS, CIMBER, DECIMUS,
CINNNA, CASCA, BRUTUS.
Rome
's
lost.
Then,
Coesar
timely
warn'd,
has shun'd his
Danger.
No.—The last Thing,
Caesar
will shun, is
Danger.
—Roman
's! Att
nd; and weep your Country's Fate:
I swore the Death of
Caesar:—
Curse me not,
Ye
Parent Gods!—
I thought it
due,
to
Rome.
To Law—to Liberty—to
Man
's lost Rights;
To Power's Restraint, and a deliver'd World.
The Hour—the dreadful Hour, high Heaven!
I
nam'd!
Ev'n now, its, last dire Moment calls on
Brutus:
And now, ev'n
now, Brutus
is
Caesar
's—SON!
Conspirator's, all start, and look down, in a speechless Astonishment.
after a long Pause.
Servilia
was in secret wedlock join'd—
And gave
He
self,
and
me—
to
Caesar
's Love.
Conspirators still silent, fix'd, and amaz'd.
After another short Pause.
Is there a
Roman,
so benumb'd of Soul,
So firm, so passionless, so steel'd a
Stoick!
So nerv'd, beyond all vulgar Strength of
Man!
That he dares
urge
what
Brutus
swore to
do?
Cassius!—
Thou tremblest.—
Thou shalt tremble,
too,
At the last Counsel, I will live, to give thee.
Think,
e're thou speak'st—for
Nature
is at Stake;
And, list'ning, dreads th' Advice, thou dar'st obtrude.
Mark then—were
Brutus
of
Plebeian
Mould,
Cassius
wou'd say,
serve on:
The Tyrant Son
Shou'd aid th' Ambition of the Tyrant Father.
Rome
had but mark'd
two Caesar
's for
one
Fate.
But thou wer't born her
Friend—
thy Name is
Brutus,
And every
Brutus
breath'd, to
bless
Mankind.
Thy changeless Heart, inflexible for Virtue,
Patriots
a Tyrant Blood, tho' drawn from
Caesar.
Be dumb—be warn'd—'twere
impious
more to hear thee,
Nay mark—thou know'st what
Cataline
propos'd,
When, with a Rebel Hand, he shook his Country:
I know it,
Cassius!
—On that lawless Day,
When, desp'rate, he presum'd an Act, like
Caesar
's,
Suppose—all—wily, with a Tyrant's
Craft,
This
Catiline
had claim'd thee, for his
Son?
Roman
thou wrong'st me.—
Call me, then
no Roman:
Twas a disgraceful Question:—It imply'd,—
A
Brutus
might be
brib'd,
to wrong his Country.
Caesar
yet
lives.—
—Caesar—
and
Catiline!
Gods!—what Disparities thou yok'st together!
—That
Caesar
's
Policy
not
feigns
me His,
Learn—I have Proof, too plain.
—Servilia
spoke
Spoke, from the Shades of
Death,
and own'd me
Caesar
's.
Did her
Ghost
tell this Dream?
The
Dream
is
Thine,
Light
Cassius!—
She confess'd it, in her Letter:
Caesar
has
Arts,
beyond thy honest reaching,—
But, let it pass
—Caesar
is
Caesar,
still;—
Be
Bru
us
cheated, by his Tale, or no—
He
no less guilty.
—Thou
no less a
Roman.
If he's my
Father.—
Rome
was still his
Mother:
Where lives a bolder
Paricide,
than
Caesar?
Away—my shrinking
Soul
abhors thy Purpose!
If I am
Caesar
's
Son, Caesar,
to
me,
Is faultless:—Nature made me
not
his Judge.
And, till
Rome
's
Gods
redeem her,
Brutus
dares not.
If
Duty
binds—thy
Soul
was
Son
to
Cato:
He
form'd thy Truth, thy Firmness, and thy Virtue:
He
taught thee to
revere
the Gods, thou swor'st by:
And feel the sacred Force, that firms on
Oath.
Perish
an Oath
—against
the Birth, I
breathe
by!
Thou but contribut'st
Faith,
to help
Deceit!
Thou
art not—can'st not be—
the Son of
Caesar:
I
know,
thou art not.
Cassius!—If
I
am!
—What Clash of Contradictions rends my Soul!
Horror, and Piety,
divide
my Virtue,
Save Caesar,
all ye Gods!—But
save Rome
from him,
Caesar
must not be safe,—Or,
Rome
must fall.
Oh,
Cassius!
partial
Hatred
weighs unjustly:
Mercy so tempers his Pretence to Power,
That Tyranny grows
safe—
and
looks,
like Freedom.
There is an awful Equity, that towre's
Above
Men's private Passions:—Tyrants
die.—
And
Sons
of Tyrants
want
their Father's Virtues:
Then bleeds a groaning State! and
Right,
and
Rapine
Descend
from Heir to Heir, for ten red Ages,
E're comes
Another Caesar.—
Hence, 'us
Mercy,
When One Man dies, to save the Blood of
Nations.
Dies, Cassius!—
by a SON!—Oh! righteous Heaven!
Ayert the impending
Horror!—
Foe to
Nature,
Hint it no more—Or,
Brutus,
turns the Sword,
Thou point'st at
Caesar
's Life—against thy
own.
I've
heard
I am
too hasty!—
Judge me
Romans:—
You, who have seen the Proof, that Heaven has lent me;
Judge, to what
daring Length,
this rash, blind, Man
Provokes
his Friend's Impatience:—Let that punish thee.
Gives him
Caesar's
Table-Book.
Read
there,
what envied Rights thy Birth derives
From
Caesar
's Blood—who, thus, cou'd sentence
Thine.
Reading.
"Wrong'd
Caesar
claims Redress from
Curio
's
Sword'
"Be this his
Warrant
for dispatching
—Brutus.
—If this was
Caesar
's, he believ'd me
not
His
Son.—
and I have treated
Truth,
unkindly,
Yes—thou hast thank'd us well!—these Friends!—this
Cassius,
Who in the
Grove,
from
Caesar
's Murderers,
sav'd
Doom'd
Portia,
thy Belov'd! on Death's dire Verge.
And seizing
Curio,
found that Warrant with him.
Reviewing the Warrant.
By Heav'n! tis
Caesar
's
Hand.
—Tis
Caesar
's
Heart:
He judg'd the Virtue, like his
own-Disguise:
So try'd Corruption's Power—and held out
Hope
Of proud
Succession:
Thou, if
Caesar
's Son.
Wert Heir to
Caesar
's Empire.—Failing, there,
He found One surer Way:
—Marius,
his Uncle,
Had taught him, that
dead Foes
resist no longer.
Oh! it is all, too plain!—Come,
Cassius! Cimber!
Decimus! Casca! Cinna!—
Guardian Friends?
Dwell
in my Bosom; share the
Joy,
you give:
Help me to thank the
Gods,
I'm once more
Brutus?
Oh; I cou'd play the Wanton—let loose Pleasure;—
Laugh with the light: grow thoughtless, and
forget
Rome
's
Danger,
for a
Day—
to Cherish Rapture!
Now,
where's the
Tempest?-
where's the
Thunder,
Now?
Loud let it rend, unfear'd, the Arch of Heaven:
Tis ominous, no longer:—let it roar
Delightful? Brutus
is no Son of
Caesar!
That!
let it
swell
that Sound?—let it to Earth,
Air—Heaven, and lowest
Hell
's lost Hope
—proclaim,
That
Roman Brutus
is not SON to
Caesar.
Thank the kind Gods, who sav'd thee from such Horror.
Indulgent Heaven! were I like happier
Roman
's,
Nature had now set free my patriot Hand,
And
Brutus
were again,
but Friend
to
Caesar.
Time calls;—the Senate waits us.
Stay, stay
Cassius!
I feel, I know not what, of Nameless
Doubting,
Still, hov'ring dark, and slack'ning half my Heart:
Oh! I am,
yet,
his Son.—A
Friends
a Father:
And
That
kind Title has been,
ever, Caesar
's.
Trumpet heard at a distance.
Help Heaven! that Trumphet calls him to his Fate!
Fly,
Decimus?
prevent him: court him
hither:
For the
last
Time, I'll
press
my Power, to
save
him.
Think—how expos'd thou leav'st the Friends of
Rome!
If I betray you, may the Gods, I swore by,
Revenge your Cause! and
Rome
renounce my Name!
On thy known Truth, deserted we depend:
Fix'd in Belief, as if those Gods, invok'd,
Stood Pledges for thy Purpose.—On to the Senate.
Exeunt all, except
Brutus.
alone.
Immortal Taskers of this fatal Moment!
Free my entangled Thoughts from gathering Darkness,
And let
Rome
's safety flow from
Caesar
's Will!
—He comes—Oh, Shade of
Cato!
guard my Virtue
SCENE III.
BRUTUS, CAESAR. and LICTORS.
To the
Lictors.
Retire, and wait within:—I wou'd be private.
Exeunt
Lictors.
They tell me, thou ha'st
Secrets
to impart:
What are they?
—May the Soul of
Rome
inspire me!
Wilt thou be Son to
Caesar?
—Caesar
's Son,—
With
Pride—
if
Caesar
will be Son of
Rome.—
Again?—
persumptous Weakness!
know
thy Duty:
Whether wou'd popular Pretension drive Thee?
To
live
for Liberty—Or
die
for Glory:
Thou mean'st a Substance, but thou serv'st a Name.
Rome
's Senate held her Freedom
more
than
Name.
Her Senate, rich and proud, oppress'd her People:
Her People, poor and headstrong, spurn'd their Yoke:
Hence, rose the new Necessity, thou see'st not,
Of some unformal, Self-supporting
Sword,
To cut Sedition boldly, to it's
Root,
And rectify the crooked Growth of Empire.
This done—regenerate
Rome
grown
fit
f
r Liberty,
Make it thy future Gift:—and, therefore reign.
Now,
'tis Seditian's Cloak.—Her Trumpet's
Call,
That State-disturbers arm by.
Teach the
Senate
These found Defects; and shape their wish'd Redress,
Theirs
is the Right to
think,
for
councell'd Rome:
Caesar
a
King—
Were all his Virtues
Stars,
Rome
's Rights invading, makes his Virtues—Crimes.
Caesar
a
Citizen,
protecting Law,
Mix'd
with
the People, reigns the People's
God.
What
Law?
what
People?—Government grew
Graft,
And
Violation
throve by Law's Protection:
Power's tott'ring Ballance shall be fix'd more
justly.
What
single
Hand has Right to fix
Rome
's Scale?
All
Men have
Nature's Right,
to bless their Country.
Blessings are
Insuits,
if by Force, impos'd.
Then
Heaven,
that bless'd an
unconcurring World,
Insulted Nature's Freedom.
Give up the
Stubborn;
Trust
Rome
to
Rome;
and Freedom, to the
God.
Errors that spring
from Pity, call for
Pity.
Pity thy Country's
Tears:
the Groans of
Millions!
I
did.—
and, therefore, I assum'd
Dominion.
Dominion adds no Fame to Worth like
Caesar
's:
Nature
proclaim'd
Thee Noblest.—
Deeds, like thine,
Raise their Performer's
Rank,
till
King
sounds poorly,
Times purple plunderers, All, shall steal
thy Name,
And bid their proudest
Title
be but
—Caesar.
Surphace,
without a
Depth!—
false Patriots, thus,
Busied in
Forms,
let slip the
Soul
of Purpose!
While with delusive Toil, thou plow'st for Freedom,
Cheated by
factious Seed,
thou
sow'st
but
Slavery.
Against
One
fansied Tyrant, blindly warm'd,
Thou, for a
Hundred,
help'st to curse thy Country.
They
curse their Country, who disturb her
Peace;
And march their iron Legions, o'er her Bosom.
I shew'd thee, obstinate, persisting Rebel!
Peace had no
Root,
in
Rome:—
Her Rights were
Forms:
Her Senate—a loud Hive of insect
Kings;
That robb'd, and stung: and call'd Oppression
—Priviledge.
Their lawful sovereign Lord, the People
—Slaves:
Slaves! in the Mockery of imagin'd Freedom!
See thy Misguiders rightly.—Trust a Father:
Affection
cannot
injure:—Thou art
pale!
Look
on me
Brutus!—
What new Dream disturbs thee?
—Wake
me some
Roman God!
—Wake thee, to
feel
Nature's lost Power.
—I feel it
All,
for
Caesar.
What woud'st thou teach my Doubts to apprehend?
Vengeance, and
Death,
from
Romans.
Vengeance
is
Mine:
I won it in the Field,—to throw it back,—
And scorn'd the unmanly Trophy:
Death
is my Friend:
Come, when it will—tis but discharge from Care:
'Tis but to 'scape false Fears, and real Sorrows,
'Tis but to rest from Wrongs, and rise to Glory.
There's not an unbought
Roman,
in the Senate,
But meditates thy Murder.
Murderers,
Brutus;
Kill
their own Character:—He, whom they strike,
Dies, to his Memory's
Profit.—
All, they can
dare,
When they attempt like Men,—like
Man,
Itll meet.
But shou'd they
mean
some dark, dishonest Blow?
Then
Heav'n,
that hates the
base,
will strike the Strikers.
If thou
can'st fear,
fear
All.
To say, I
cannot,
Were light:—I
will not, Brutus.—
Feeble
Fear
Is a low, fruitless, Passion:—It unnerves
Resistance; and obscures Prevention's
Eye:
Meets a'short Blow, half-way;—and aids its Weakness
Life is not worth a Fear.
Fear for Mankind;
Fear, for the sate of
Rome,
that
loses Caesar.
No more. I know
Rome
's wants, and reign, to serve he▪
Menace to me, means Nothing: spare thy Terrors:
Not ev'n the Threats of
Heaven
alarm the
Just:
Shou'd the contending
Elements
break
loose,
And into formless Atoms,
rend
the
World,
The Friend of Truth
must fall—
but falls
unshaken.
Oh,
Caesar!—
my full Heart!
—farewell, forever.
Turning away, Disordered.
Brutus,
in
Tears!—
so mourn we Griefs, we
make?
Immortal Gods!—what
Madness
blinds Conceit!
He, who, unmov'd, resists the Voice of
Nature,
Melts, in imagin'd Woes, and weeps for
Rome.
No:—I but
die
for
Rome.—
I
weep
for
Caesar,
Exit,
in
Confusion.
SCENE IV.
CAESAR, TRINOVANTIUS.
What? my bold
Briton—
Welcome,
Trinovantius,
I love thy Country's Virtues.
Caesar,
hail!
When thy Friends
fear—
and ev'en a
Brutus weeps.
May thy
Gods
guard thee, as thy
Soldier
wou'd!
Long, has thy brave and faithful
Cohort
serv'd Me;
What are their
Want's?—
teach
Caesar
how please Thee.
No
Briton
wastes a Prayer upon
Himself,
When his
Friend's
Life's in
Danger.
What then woud'st thou?
The
Senate,
met, and full of seeming Faith,
Wait thy wish'd Presence;
—Rome
's rais'd
Throne
invitee, thee,
Thy plain, well-m
aning. Friends, the Populace,
Bear offer'd
In
ense,
thro' the Streets-of
Rome;
And pay their willing Worship to thy
Statues.
All the pleas'd City smiles.—Yet, cou'd
I
move thee;
Cou'd thy old Soldier's first-felt
Fear
perswade;—
Caesar
shou'd
shun
the sad-presaging Hour,
And bid this
Diadem
attend his
Leisure.
I thought, the Sons of
Thame
's had felt no
Fears.
No Fears they feel from Earth's uniting Anger:
But▪ when
Heaven
frowns, 'tis impious,
not
to tremble.
All Nature, thro' her Works, seems, now,
convuls'd:
—I met the pali
Vestals,
wildly screaming:
Fled, from the
e
tin
uish'd
Fire, robeless, and
bare:
And blind amidst the Dust of
crumbling Towers;
Shook from the dark'nd Summits!—Doors of
Sepulchre
's
Untouch'd, fly open: and from silent
Urns,
Where slept in Monumental Rest, the Bones
Of
Rome
's first Founders, slow-ascending
Shades
Catch form;—and hov'ring, in the
quick'n'd
Air,
View some
sad Fate,
they want the Power to
tell:
And shrink, and start—and fly the sick'ning Sun.
—Such boding
Signs
fore-note impending
Fate:
And Heaven, from whom Kings hold, postpones thy Claim.
Fie
Trinovantius!—
'T is to bold for
Man!
'Tis
Insolence,
to list the Eternal
Gods:
Make Nature
bus,
and
un-hinge
a
World.
To lengthen, or cut short, a Mortal's Moment?
Th' all-ruling Powers have
fi
'd
our destin'd Space;
And we, too weak to
shun,
must
wait
their Will.
Tis whisper'd,—some great Names
unite
for Mischief.
Ambition,
born for
Contest,
owes Contempt
To Threat'ners.—
Yes.—But, cautious
Note
of Treason,
Timely, and oft, averts the Traitor's Purpose.
To live in daily
Dread,
is daily
dying:
'
is
worse
than Death:—'Tis Sickness
never cur'd!
Suffer my
Briton
's to surround the Temple,
And trust malicious
Senates
to their Eye.
Who awes his Enemy, submits to fear him.
—Stay, my good Friend, thou comst no farther on.
I leave thee,
Caesar!
with a strange
Regret!
For my fore-boding Heart is filled with Terror.
Be comforted.—Thou over-rat'st my Danger.
Three hundred
new Patrician
's swell the
Senate:
All, mine, for their own Safety:—Half the
old,—
Names, like the
Julian,
fam'd, e're
Rome was Rome!
Converts
to slow-found Truth, embrace her warmly,
These, nobly owning, teach the
Rest
to
owne,
When Error is
Disgrace,
Retraction's
Virtue.
What apprehend'st thou, then, from that small Remnant,
Whose Weakness is too
wise,
to dare their With,
O,
Pallas! Pallas!—
Guide of Martial
Caesar!
How grew the Master-Soldier of the World
Unmindful, what
Success,
in Deeds of Blood,
Crowns
unexpected
Rashness!—If we but
think
Th' Attempt impossible, we
make
it safe.
—Had (but that Heaven forbids) this unfear'd
Few,
Weak as they seem, dar'd in full
Senate,
strike,
Firm, and combin'd, at
Caesar
's sacred
Life;
His Friends, th' astonish'd
many—
powerless unnerv'd,
In Gaze of helpless Horror, had sat passive;
Each doubting each—a
Foe;
till Fate had reach'd thee,
And, while Prevention paus'd, Presumption triumph'd.
Briton!
Thy Heart is manly: and thy Mind
Adorn'd with every Gift of Faith, and Wisdom!
Act, as thy Doubts inspire thee.—Since
thou
fear'st,
'Tis strange, that I, too, cannot!—Yet, beware,
Thou call'st no Aid of
Arms:—
Civil
to
Civil,
And, but to
martial
military.—Hear'st thou
Loud Cry of A
Caesar
—A
Caesar!
You shoutig Swarm, that shakes
Rome
's echoing
Domes?
Lead those
loud Voters,
from the o'rerowded Streets,
To where their Cry may reach the
Senate
's Ear:
'Twill caution Guilt, perhaps! And aid Resolves.
Thanks to the Gods, thy Friends! Who led thee, once,
To charm our fraudless
Isle!—
By
them
inspir'd,
One grateful
Briton
saves the
Roman Soul!
Caesar,
and
Trinovantius,
turn to go off, on
opposite Sides.
SCENE V.
TORBILIUS. (Ent'ring hastily.)
meeting him.
Bless thy quick Step! Com'st thou to hold back
Caesar?
Brave
Islander,
I
do:
Emperor! Dictator!
Hush thy too busy Terrors.
Aside.
Hold him, sweet
Roman!
Tun'd
Eloquence
is thine: Tell him some
Tale,
No matter on what Subject, make it but
long,
Exit
hastily.
seeing
Torbilius.
Why
art THOU, here!—Did
Brutus
vote for Murder?
Shun the met
Senate:—All
mean Murder,
there:
All
cannot.—Thou defam'st too
broadly:—
WHO?
The Patriot Faction.
Thou has't
yoak'd
Ideas,
Which Reason must
divide.—
Patriot, and Faction,
Like
Oil
on
Waters,
mix, when strongly
shaken:
But never can
unite.—
disjoin'd, by Nature!
Patriot
's can
envy.—
And who envies
—hates.
Let 'em hate on.—In Men, who love their Country,
Envy but quickens Virtue.
This black
List
Contains O,
Caesar!
thirty Traitor's Names:
Traitors, by great
Calphurnia
's Care detected:
Traitors, who under
Friendship
's fair Disguise,
Have with confederate Malice,
sworn
thy Murder.
Taking the Roll.
Did my
Calphurnia
send thee?
Caesar,
she
did:
My
Friend
's Names, say'st thou, in this Roll of
Traitors?
All thy most
trusted,
most
distinguished
Friends?
After a Pause, returning the Roll, unopened.
Take
back
thy bloody List. and
hide
Man's baseness:
Where
Trust
is tainted by such dire
Deceit,
Life is not
worth preserving.
Lov'd
Calphurnia.
Demands
it:—for her sake, repress thy Scorn.—
Stay but to go
well-guarded.
Against
Enemies,
Caesar
suffices for the
Guard
of
Caesar:—
But, against Friends, Distrust were
Violation.
Holding his Robe.
Stay, but to be
convinced—
ill-fated
Caesar!
I
will not
be convinced, that
Faith
is Weakness.
W
o
wou'd take Pains to
lose
that Peace, he feels,
From generous Confidence in human Virtues?
If there
are
Wretches, who, oblig'd,
betray,
'Tis Comfort,
not to know
'em
Exit
Caesar
SCENE VI.
To
TORBILIUS
enter
TRINOVANTIUS
and two
Roman
Officers.
Oh! farewell,
Rome
's Fame!—Her
Evil Genius
has prevail'd:
And
Caesar
's
Death
shall doom declining Empire.
Exit.
Repelling a crowd of
Plebeians?
Stand back, keep distance; reverence the sitting Senate:
Whom will you crown your
King?
A
Caesar.!
A
Caesar!
Bless your concurring Joy! ye grateful People!
Caesar
is yours—and you are justly
Caesar
's!
Crown
him with Rapture.—For were
Caesar King,
Rome
had
no Tyrants:
All your lordly
Patrons,
Stripp'd of oppressive Power, shall call you
Brothers.
Office,
with equal Eye, shall search for
Skill,
And Liberty become the
poor Man
's Claim.
There
are,
who justly dread in
Caesar
's Crown,
His Love of the
Unhappy:—
dread his
Pity.
He
will not see the groaning Debtor
sold,
To feed the rich Man's Luxury.—No Tears
Of starving
Want;—
no iron Hand of Law;
No Slaves to fellow-subjects, shall make
sad
The Streets of
happy Rome—
If
Caesar
reigns.
A cry from within—
Liberty! Liberty: Liberty!
Hark! in that Cry, arose no voice of
Joy!
By Heaven; they Murder
Caesar!
guard this Door,
Good
Romans! Fulvius! Aetius!
your try'd Swords,
And mine, dare
enter.—
Follow
Me,
and save him.
As they are going off, with their Swords drawn; they are stopt by
Antony,
who enters disordered.
Spare your meant Aid:—alas! it comes to late:
Murder,
with all
Briareus
's hundred Hands,
Pierc'd the
World
's
Soul—
and Conquest
is no more.
Curses consume their Names; what villain Hand!—
Casca
struck first.
—Caesar,
up-starting seiz'd
The assassin Steel—back plung'd it home,—and cry'd,
No—villain
Casca!
No—thus, thy own
Poiniard
Corrects thy feeble Purpose:
—die—
die—
Traitor!
Down to the expecting Shades—say
Caesar
sent thee.
There,
press'd beneath a storm of Wounds, at once,
He stood, and frown'd, and bled, on every Side:
Moving at last, Majestic—the red Hand
Of miscreant
Brutus
met his radiant Eye.
Then
thus.—
All,
cruel Murderers? what!
All?
And Thou! My SON 1 My BRUTUS! Nay then, to
conquer,
Were to perpetuate
Pain:—
and Death grows
Joy.
Speaking, he sunk:—Soft, o'er his manly form,
Smooth'd his disorder'd Robe—and, sighless,
died.
Cry again, from within, Liberty! Liberty!
Edge this true Sword, kind Heaven! they dare
descend.
Advancing to meet the Conspirators, he is held back by
Marc Antony.
SCENE VII.
TRINOVANTIUS, ANTONY,
and Officers,
CASSIUS, DECIMUS, CINNA, MARCELLUS,
with bloody Daggers.
'Tis past—Ambition bleeds; and
Rome
is
free:
Hail Lords of
Rome
reviv'd! Nation of
Princes.
Now once more,
Masters
of a World, you won!
Dare
vindicate
the Hands, that
broke
your Chain.
struggling against Antony.
Cowards! cold-hearted
Cowards!—
You, who thus
Fear to
Revenge—
'tis you, have
murder'd Caesar.
No,
Trinovantius.—
Trust the Gods, and
Rome.
With
Caesar
's Vengeance!—carefull, thro' the Crowd,
I seek, but find not
Brutus.
Enters wounded
—Who nam'd
Brutus?
'Twas
Antony—
come forward, valiant
Cimber!
Where ha'st thou left our Chief?
[Unhappy
Brutus!
Struck, by the Words, and Look, of dying
Caesar,
He bow'd to
weep
upon the Wound, he
made:
When, from a Gallery, bursting in,
above,
Held twixt the
frantic Vestals,
there appear'd
Cato'
yet living Sister
—lost Servilia!
See! cry'd the breathless Trembler,
-Traitor! Paricide!
Call'd by
thy
Crimes, in vain, from a Retreat,
W'ere
hid,
(not
dead)
I shun'd a hated World,
Thy Mother's blasted Eye,—fell Monster! Murderer!
Finds thee, too late: And ev
ry God shall Curse thee,
She
scream'd,
and sunk, amid the vestal Train.
Brutus!
all Wild, as with a
Fury's
Horror,
Gaz'd, up, down, round—wrung his clos'd Hands—ran—stopt,
Return'd—then, with a bursting sigh, resum'd
Composure:
kneel'd, and kiss'd the Robe of
Caesar?
But sn
tchin
a fall'n
Dagger,
rose, distracted,
And cry'd—take, take me Vengeance!
Rome
is
free:
"But
Brutus,
in her Cause, has
stabb'd a Father!
Near, as he aim'd the meditated Blow,
I br
ke its erring Force—and on this Arm,
Receiv'd the pointed Mischief.—So,
prevented,
I left him, 'midst a Guard of weeping
Romans.
Well may he
weep!—
but when he
reads
a Charge,
The murder'd Father left the murdering Son;
What will he
then
endure?—what
Cave
has Earth,
So deep, so dark, to hide him from
Himself!
When he shall see, that, to his bloody Hand;
Caesar
consign'd the Power to
fix Rom's Liberty.
Thou speak'st in Mystery,
Marc Antony!
Move to the
Forum.—
In the Face of
Rome,
I shall unfold the
Will
of
Rome
's lost Guardian.
Cou'd artful
Antony,
prove
Caesar wrong'd;
Cassius
wou'd then
confess,
he was
too hasty.
Traitor! thy willing
Envy
lov'd the Error:
And thou shalt expiate—far, as lowest
Vice.
Too weakly can attone for murdered
Virtue,
This Hour's detested Guilt, by
Death
and
Infamy.
Summon the People:—I'll revenge this Murder;
Then, mourn lost
Rome—
and guard
Britannia
's Liberty.
Exeunt
Roman Offic
rs,
and
Plebeians.
coming forward.
Had but Ambition
Eyes,
to look thro' Time,
Twoud see its
rui
l
ss Toil, and shun to climb:
Fondness of Noise, and Crowds of Court would cease,
And Man's whole Happiness be plac'd in
Peace.
Safe Liberty would guard each Patriot
Throne,
And
Tyrant
be, henceforth, a Name
unknown:
All Fruit of Power is
Pain:
and what is
Fame?
When ev'n a
Caesar
's Glory stains his Name.
The END.
EPILOGUE.
In D
etta:
WHAT think ye
Sirs, of ou
Quack-stage
Ph
sician;
Who gives Folks Pills, in Verse—to cure
Ambition?
entering Opposite
Fifty to One, he
breaks:—
for, to my Knowledge,
That Cure's too hard, even for our
Female
College!
And, (don't look silly, Sirs, when plainly
told
it)
Where we give out, You've poor Pretence, to hold it.
Well—but, pray, Madam!—was not this
Intrusion?
Two—to One Epilogue?
Bar—false Conclusion.
Cupid,
that yokes you
Smarts,
nere dragg'd 'em hither,
Till
broke
to Female Tongues,
Twice Two,
together
Nay—if
They're
pleas'd, I am.—your
Plot?
pray tell us.
The Plot, of
Petticoats—
to charm the
Fellows.
Hang Petticoats.—I came, to roast
Sedition.
Well. and I'll souse it's
Cause,—
Stand clear,
Ambition.
Begin.—
Do you
I dare not.
Why?
Depend on't
My Tongue, once well beginning, makes no end on't
N
matter.
—Woman's
Woman's
Match,
nere fear it.
Is She?—come.
plead
the
use—The
Bench
shall hear it.
turns to the Audience
Tho', born, a
Maid.—
and, therefore, no
Man-hater.
There's ONE
He
Thing I
loathe—
and That's, a
Traitor.
. Contentless Monster▪ —form'd to
grumble.
No
King
can please him—and no
Wife
can humble.
What'ere hard Durance binds him,—(make no doubt on't)
He'll find some strange new Hole. and creep safe ou't on't.
Horrid, the
Traitor
's
Wife
's abhorr'd Condition!
Worse, ten times worse, the
Maid's,
that weds
Ambition!
Oh▪ Ladies!—
too, too apt, to over rate it,
Catch a few, private
Hints:
and learn to hate it.
The
Traitor,
once for all's,
but hang'd
and
quiet:
Th'
ambitious
Fribbler's
Life
's one, long-stretch'd,
Riot.
Like a Nun's Flannel Shift, worn
close,
to
teaze
ye.
Ais Cow-itch Clasp sticks fast, and fondly yeFleas
Now, tis
my
Turn to speak
—Avant,
SEDITION!
Not yet, this half hour.—Ladies, fly AMB
T
ON
Husbands, who that hard
horny
Taste, inherit,
Dry, like
'still Rose-Cakes,
and turn, all, to
Spirit.
Wrapt in
Thought's
Cloud, they're like (no doubt) to
chear
ye,
Who see, hear, touch.—and, yet, scarce know, there near ye.
Good
Friend,
and dear
Ally!—
henceforth,
uniting,
Spite of
bad Patterns,
let's
join Hands, for Fighting.
A
Match.
so join'd, each Star must
Conquest,
mean us.
Lord help the poor
French Prig.
that falls,
between
us!
Say, what Ambition
is.
Tis Treason's
Mother:
Nurse,
of Debate—
Sly Devils! Both one, and To'ther!
What is
Sedition?
Virtue's false
Pretence:
Religions
Cloak,—
the
two-edg'd
Sword, of Sense.
Tis Freedom's
resty Start:
Pride's
patriot Plea:
Sound, that
ca'nt hear:
and Sight, that
will not
see.
Sedition! Thou art Discord never ending.
Ambition! Thou art
pointing to the Head
crack'd,
past Power of mending
Past even
St. Edward's Cure,
thou dire
King's Evil!
Thou first
Plague Mark,—
on Angel, Man, and Devil!
Snubborn as
Woman's Will,
thou hat'st Restriction:
And grow'st but ten Times
worse,
for Contradiction.
Shun plotting Heads, dear Ladies—All miscarries,
When one, that hums and haws at Midnight,
—Marries,
Better, plain downright
Dunce.
no Dreams pursuing.
One, that means bluntly and knows, what he's doing.
Not him, whose towr'ing Mind, estrang'd from Pleasure,
Holds him, still
busiest,—
when his Wife's at
Leizure.
Better, a
Sportsman,
sound of Wind, and hearty.
Better a
Sot—
than Spouse
dry drunk
with
Party.
A
hunting
Husband
hallows,
and wé
beár
him.
A
drunken
Deary
Staggers,
and we
steer
him.
Each, conseious of his
Wife,
take Care to make her,
One Way, or other—an indulged
Partaker.
But, your sage, Secret,
Politician
Lover,
Has nothing, fit for Woman to discover,
No. He's a deep, dark, pensive, Comfort-hater-Bodied for
Solitude.
And
ould—for
Satire.
Stranger,
at home, he
looks abroad
for Blessing!
And finds whatere he
has,
not w
rth Poss
ssing.
Freedom, and Mirth, and Health, and Joy
—despises.
And Shuns all
Rest.—
H
so Profoundly,
wise,
is!
At length, (Thank Heaven) he
dies:
kind Vapours strike him.
And leaves behind—
Ten Thousand Madmen,
like
him,