LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS. AN HISTORICAL PLAY.
[Price Three Shillings.]
LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS; OR, THE EXPULSION OF THE TARQUINS: AN HISTORICAL PLAY.
BY HUGH DOWNMAN.
—Manus haec inimica Tyrannis.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. WILKIE, NO. 71, ST. PAUL'S-CHURCH-YARD; FIELDING AND WALKER, PATER-NOSTER-ROW; G. KEARSLEY, FLEET-STREET; P. ELSMLEY, STRAND; W. DAVIS, PICCADILLY. MDCCLXXIX.
PREFACE.
Tthose who judge of dramatic merit from the Greek models, the rules of French critics, or the examples of modern writers, a justification of the following piece would be attempted in vain. They would call it a motley performance, deficient in almost every article, which constitutes a true and proper tragedy. If the author was to alledge, that he never meant to compose a tragedy, according to their acceptation of the word, but that his intention was to fill up a picture of real life, in a certain given time, the outlines of which were taken from historical facts, his reason would be deemed unsatisfactory.
Regardless of the end proposed, they would continue to exclaim, that the unities were neglected, that the grave was intermingled with the ludicrous; that the business of the drama frequently stood still; that the dialogue was too familiar, and the metre little better than measured prose.
How far some of these objections may be valid, and how many more might, perhaps, with reason be urged against particular passages, the author would not determine. The force of others of them he would endeavour to diminish, by answering, that they militate equally against human life itself; and that while he should be sorry to have this denominated an artificial poem, he would flatter himself, it cannot be justly thought an unnatural one.
Dr. Johnson indeed, in the preface to his edition of Shakespeare, seems to have sufficiently vindicated this particular species of writing, to which, those who please, may (instead of tragedy) give the more simple name of history. Neither are there wanting many good judges of composition, who wish that the less studied diction, and more plain and level metre of the school of that immortal poet, (which seems to have ended with Southern) had been continued to the present time. Even this performance, with all its imputed irregularities and deficiencies, will, perhaps, be preferred by them, to those translated tragedies or imitations, which of late years have, through novelty, lived their nine nights on the stage, and been damned for ever after in the closet: tho' they had been corrected and metamorphosed by managers, calculated to afford to favourite actors or actresses opportunities of shining, and curtailed by lord chamberlains.
A diversification of characters hath been attempted in this piece; and to give to every character the mode of sentiment and expression, peculiarly suited to it. It is not at all difficult for a man of a very middling genius, to contrive a regular plot, to pen down a certain number of sounding lines; and though his Dramatis Personae are distinguished by particular names, to put his own sentiments in their mouths throughout five acts. Had the author been solicitous of adapting his plan to the stage, or wished to conciliate the favour of the indiscriminating multitude, he might probably have followed the same method.
However it may appear to us, when we are reading, no small attention is requisite in written dialogue of any kind, for an author entirely to cast off self. This was the characteristic of Shakespeare; and perhaps after all, the author of this play hath deceived himself, and it may with reason be applied to him.
—Sudet multum frustra
que
laboret
Ausus idem.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
MEN.
TARQUIN,
TITUS,
ARUNS,
SEXTUS,
L. J. BRUTUS,
COLLATINUS,
LUCRETIUS,
VALERIUS,
HORATIUS,
HERMINIUS,
CLAUDIUS,
Messengers, Guards, &c.
WOMEN.
LUCRETIA,
Lucretia's Maids.
LAVINIA,
CLELIA.
CAMILLA, and others,
LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS.
ACT 1.
SCENE 1.
Rome.
VALERIUS, LUCRETIUS.
YES, we may weep the ruin of our country,
And so must all good men; but there's no remedy;
The evil is too rank t' admit a cure.
Oppression wide hath spread her bane, and tainted
The universal air; scarce are our souls
Our own, much less our words. The secret curse
Is frequent, offer'd up to all the gods
The midnight silent deprecation calls
For vengeance on the proud, the imperious Tarquin.
But in the day each wears the face of loyalty,
Nor dares, so jealous are these groveling times,
E'en in his brother's bosom pour the secret
Which ulcerating preys upon his heart.
How we two thus have dared communicate
Our thoughts either to other, is to me
Most strange and passing marvel.
Had I not known thee long, thou noblest Roman,
Amid these worst of times immoveable
In honour's steady course, invariably
Upright and just, in thy domestic life
Untainted too, I would not thus have open'd
My inmost breast, or given the passing wind
An opportunity to bear my words
On its licentious wing to th' tyrant's ear.
A mutual confidence henceforth be ours.
Scarcely can I express with what abhorrence
I look upon this monster of a man.
Scan the whole catalogue of horrid crimes,
And if you find one he hath not committed,
I will retract my words, and call him virtuous.
His brother first he poison'd, to possess
His wife; to gain the crown, assassinated
Most ruffian like, the good old king, by marriage
His father: I beheld the elder thrown
Down from the senate-house, his aged limbs
Bruised by the flinty pavement, his white locks
Which from the lawless robber would have gain'd
Respect and veneration, wildly scatter'd
Over his sace, defiled with clotted gore;
Raised from the ground with utmost difficulty,
And tottering t'ward his home, he met his death.
Still did insatiate cruelty pursue
His breathless corse, denied the common rites
Of burial; all men struck with horror, shunn'd
Th' accursed spot: yet then his savage wife
Drunk with hot draughts of empire, or possess'd
By the infernal furies, every tie
Of human nature cast aside, drove on
High in her stately chariot, and impell'd
Th' affrighted horses o'er him where he lay,
O'er the dead body of her murder'd father.
Had I been told the fact, as perpetrated
In any foreign country, my belief
Would have rebell'd. I wonder that the sun
Turn'd not his course, as at th' inhuman feast
Of Grecian Atreus: ever to reflection
As the deed rises in its native hue,
My blood runs cold. No wonder if his throne
Founded by means like these. should be supported
By the same means. Hence in what copious streams
Hath flow'd the blood of princely senators!
Their crimes were worth or riches; hath he spared
One, but whom absolute necessity
Compell'd, or mean opinion of his faculties
Suffer'd to live?
To this, his cruel policy
He adds superior talents; with a soul
That penetrates mankind, he bears conjoin'd
The fiery spirit of the warrior God.
Talents by virtue guided, which might place him
Among the first of kings, but now serve only
To make him bold and resolute in vice,
And what is worse, create an awe, a dread,
On which, as on a base not to be shaken,
Stands fix'd high-towering tyranny.
Yet we
Need not complain: us he hath spared; and me
While 'gainst the Ardeates he wages war,
In trust exalted to be governor
Of this fair city.
Indeed, were life alone to be esteem'd,
We should not murmur; but to breathe the air,
To walk about at large, eat when we please,
Sleep at our will; this is not life—the beast
Upon the mountain leads a life like this.
When I'm so selfish as to center all
My sense of pleasure here, when I cast off
Tender humanity, which feels, as relative
To all the members of society,
Joy or affliction, may I then be cursed
With such a life as this.
Didst thou remember
Among the senators by Tarquin slain,
The name of Marcius Junius?
Well I knew him;
But what of him?
Oh! He was placed above
The strain of men; his many virtues made him
Respected as a god by th' sons of Rome:
His ancestors came hither with Aeneas
From flaming Troy, the valour of his race,
Th' heroic ardor which inflames the breast
Of conscious greatness, and uplifts mankind
To something of divinity, dwelt in him.
He was a man, that had he 'scaped the wreck
Of those tempestuous days, would ne'er have suffer'd
Gigantic tyranny to take such strides.
At least some check he would have been, some curb
Upon the mouth of headstrong appetite,
And wild ambition. This our Tarquin knew:
And at the same time looking with an eye
Of greediness upon his large possessions, sent
And slew him and his elder son, a youth
Of gracious hopes; the younger being absent
Escaped the ruin.
And now dwells with Tarquin,
Lucius, the fool, the laughing-stock o' th' court:
Whom the young princes always carry with them
To aid their sport and jocund merriment;
The but, at which they shoot their shafts of wit;
Whose paucity of sense, and mode uncouth.
Aukward and blundering, hath deservedly
Got him the name of Brutus—But why waste
Our talk on this same ideot?
'Solve the question:
I did but hint him, speaking of his father.
Indeed, why talk at all, when all must end
As bootless as began?—There is a bound
Which checks, they say, all evils in their course,
And good ensues.—Our evils know no change;
Nor have they this extremest limit proved.—
Tho' that they should be in progression still,
Is past belief.—Yet there's no chance in nature,
No possibility of alteration,
No man alive to aim at alteration:
And his three sons, Titus, and Aruns, Sextus,
All equal to their father in ability,
Beyond, if possible, in the black deeds
Of villainy, of lust, and treachery,
Are three firm pillars added to the pile
Which threats to stand for ages. Oh! these thoughts
Are capable to banish moderation
From the prepared breast, and make the wise
Turn fools and madmen.
Let us drop the subject.
Who knows the secrets of avenging Jove?
Perhaps though we, short-sighted as we are,
Think liberty bound in eternal thraldom,
His counsels otherwise decree: e'en now
Haply the dread events are bursting forth,
Like light'ning from the gloomy firmament,
To sweep this race of hell-hounds from the earth.
What may be, I'll not say; but hope long since
Hath ceased with me to wear her sanguine hue.
Why should free agents e'en on Jove depend,
To sway the will he gave?—Man rules himself—
His own fate's arbiter.—Tho' o'er these times
Broods desperation, shall we not beneath
Her wings immew'd, this galling, tempting theme
Again revive?—Words cannot pluck the thorn,
But soothe the smart.—Farewel—I'll to my house—
Whither if in the evening you will come,
Still on a genuine Roman citizen
My Lares smile.
I would attend unbidden.
But thy inviting voice should charm me thither,
Spite of disease or pain. At evening close
I come; then farewel.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Camp before Ardea.
TITUS, ARUNS.
Why, Aruns, in what corner sits the wind?
What! not a word to say! quite down i' th' mouth!
I am, and stranger, cannot guess the cause,
Unless 'tis living in inaction thus.
I would I was in Rome, or Rome was here,
Or that these coop'd-up Ardeats would but sight.
I wonder that our father sits contented
Lounging in's camp. Plague on their petty sallies!
Why doth he not attack the nest at once
With fire and sword, and rouse up all the swarm?
It was not thus he triumph'd o'er the Sabines,
Or wrested from the warlike Volsci's hands
Suessa Pometia, with whose glorious spoils
Turning religious all at once, he built
The temple in the capitol to Jupiter.
Though had he ask'd of me, I could have told him
A better way of laying out his money.
I do believe thee, Aruns, well I know
To what divinity thou would'st have rear'd
Thy golden altars.
Aye, and wisely too.
Pleasure's my deity, my Jupiter,
My Juno, and Minerva. Titus too,
If I mistake not, is no Atheist there,
But worships with as warm enthusiasm
As any votary of them all; 'tis true
He wears a graver brow, and commits sin
With a more serious philosophic face,
There's all the difference between me and thee,
A touch of feature only, in our hearts
We are most cordially alike.
Alike!
Why now indeed thy airy spirits dance,
Sparkling in either eye; but when I met thee,
What wert thou then? Inwrapp'd in discontent.
What wilt thou be anon? Chiding at straws
For lying in thy path; then quick, by th'sparks
Of angry passion, kindled into flame;
Still varying like the wind.—Thy heart like mine!
When didst thou find my skittish temper start,
And fly like thine from one to to'ther side?
Well, be it so, heaven speed us both! But Sextus!
I envy that same Sextus; for his genius
Soars o'er us both, and robs us of our birthright.
Not that I think, we halt behind him much
In our design'd intentions; but success
Befriends him farther, one would swear he kept
Fortune in pay, and that the blind-eyed goddess
Accepted bribes from him. There's not a woman
He looks on with desire but he possesses;
He says but to an enemy, Fall down,
And down he falls. Hah! say'st thou, is he not
A son of Tarquin, and a glorious villain?
Glorious I grant, but not a villain, Aruns.
Pshaw! that's a name may suit a vulgar mouth,
A tradesman talking of his brother knave;
But rank and station sanctify men's deeds;
A king successful, cannot be a tyrant,
Nor a king's son deserve a title less
Than that of prince.
Thou reason'st well, by Mars!
When I want oracles to be delivered,
I need not go to Delphos.—Out! Alas!
My blood's again obstructed, and I feel
A pain here in my head, or in my heart,
A sort of creeping kind of lethargy.—
Are you e'er seiz'd thus? Hah! here comes my antidote.
Brutus! true; he's a doctor for the spleen.
You mention'd Delphos; when we two went thither
Through the unknown seas of Greece, sent by our father
T'enquire the meaning of the prodigy,
The snake portentous, which with dreadful crest
Appearing in his palace hiss'd aloud
A direful omen! Brutus then went with us.
Oh! I remember well the precious scenes
Of folly which he acted. When we gave
Rich presents to the God; He offer'd him
A walking stick; as if the god would walk,
And take the air, but that the god was lame.
Coming from out the temple, gazing back,
As loath to leave a place so fine, he fell
Over the threshold, and plough'd up the ground,
Fixing his face i' th' earth.
You may remember
The oracle too said, that he should bear
Chief sway in Rome, who first should kiss his mother.
When we came home, both at one time we kiss'd her.
In that I think we are at least before
Our brother Sextus, jointly we reign
After our father.
Enter
Brutus.
Brutus where so fast?
Why, thou art running like a loaded horse.
Or like a slave with fetters on his legs.
What! have the Rutili attack'd the camp,
That thou art posting in this plaguy hurry?
Pray, my Lords, stop me not; I'm sent to you
On special ord'nance from the king; farewel,
I must return again.
But wert thou sent
Only to see us? Tell the king our father
We're in good health; we thank him for the message,
Which thou hast well remember'd to deliver.
Oh! my good Lord, I had forgot indeed.
But in the multitude of public cares
And daily business—if my memory fails
A little—'tis no wonder—and you know
Memory is such a thing as—
As a cart-wheel.
Indeed, my Lord, you've hit it; mine turns round,
And round—sometimes I think my head is turn'd.
I too have thought it oft.
Have you my Lord?
I'm always glad when you and I agree:
You have just such a wit as I should choose.—
Would I could purchase such an one, and put it
Into my brain! Yet so I fear 'twould split
My head, as air shut up does water bubbles.
Thou hast spoke wittier, Brute, than thou'rt aware.
But what wilt give me now for a recipe
To make a wit? I had it from the Sibyl,
Her thou saw'st t'other day, who sold to th' king
Her books at such a rate.
Pray let me see it;
What will I give!—Ten acres of my land.
Thy land! where lies it?
Ask the king my cousin:
He knows full well: I thank him, he's my steward,
And takes the trouble off my hands.
Who told thee so?
The king himself.—Now twenty years are past,
And more, when he sent for me from the farm
Where I had liv'd some time studying philosophy,
And such like serious matters.
Noble sophist,
I bend with the profoundest admiration
Of thy rare, hidden knowledge.
Yes, yes, all men
Must grant that I have no small smattering.
But where was I? Oh—Kinsman, says the king,
Says he, and smiled most graciously upon me,
For deeds of blackest and most treasonous nature,
Thy father and thy brother were accused of,
They've paid the forfeit with their lives: for thee,
Who knew'st not of their crimes, as I love mercy,
Nor take delight in wanton deeds of cruelty,
Live, and be happy; the ingenuous heart,
And simple manners speaking in thy face—
Aye, 'tis a simple manners-speaking face.
Nay, is it right to interrupt me thus?
Pardon, most noble Brutus.
These thy qualities.
Promise, says he, thou ne'er wilt form a plot
Of damn'd conspiracy against thy sovereign—
Indeed for that, I'll be thy bondsman, Brutus.
Live in my house, companion of my children.
As for thy land, to ease thee of all care,
I'll take it for thy use; all that I ask
Of thee, is gratitude.
And art thou not
Grateful for goodness so unmerited?
Am I not? Never, by the holy Gods,
Will I forget it! 'tis my constant prayer
To heaven, that I may one day have the power
To pay the debt I owe him.—But the charm
For wit you told me of.
Oh—take it gratis—
First then; attend with caution—But the message
You brought from Tarquin.—
Father Romulus,
That I should loiter thus! Why would you keep me
Engaged in talk? The king your father calls
A council, to consider of the siege
Of Ardea, and the future operations
Against the stubborn Rutili: your presence
Is ask'd immediately; shall I before,
And say you're coming?
If thou wilt, good Brutus;
Or else behind; or otherwise in th' middle:
Come, we'll all go together; or stay there,
And follow at thy leisure.
[
Exeunt
Aruns
and
Titus.
Yet, 'tis not this which ruffles me—the gibes
And scornful mockeries of ill-govern'd youth—
Or flouts of painted sycophants and jesters,
Reptiles, who lay their bellies on the dust
Before the frown of majesty. All this
I but expect, nor grudge to bear; the face
I carry too demands it.—But what then?
Is my mind fashion'd to the livery
Of dull stupidity, which I have worn
These many a day? Is't bent aside, and warp'd
From its true native dignity? Else why,
How is't that vengeance now hath slept so long?
O prudence! ill delayer of great deeds,
And noble enterprizes!—Yet—not so.
Chance may, and accidental circumstance
Crown bold and lucky rashness with success—
But oftener not. There is perhaps a time,
A certain point, which waited for with patience,
Seiz'd on, and urg'd with vigour, will go near
To banish chance, and introduce assurance
And fixedness in human actions.—
T' avenge my father's and my brother's murder!
(And sweet I must confess would be the draught)
Had this been all, oft hath the murderer's life
Been in my hands; a thousand opportunities
I've had to strike the blow—and my own life
I had not valued as a rush.—But still—
There's something farther to be done—my soul!
Enjoy the strong conception; Oh! 'tis glorious
To free a groaning country from oppression;
To vindicate man's common's rites, and crush
The neck of arrogance.—To see Revenge
Spring like a lion from his den, and tear
These hunters of mankind!—Give but the time,
Give but the moment, gods! If I am wanting,
May I drag out this ideot-feigned life
To late old age; and may posterity
Ne'er know me by another name, but that
Of Brutus, and the Tarquin's household fool.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
HORATIUS, HERMINIUS.
Whither away, Herminius? to the council?
I go to the assembly call'd by th' king;
I know not if you justly can term that
A council, where there is no consultation.
We need not now be nice i' th' definition
Of words, Horatius, which become a soldier
But ill at any time, at no time more
Perhaps than now. If we are not consulted,
We shall be told what Tarquin and his sons
Have pre-determined: no small share of confidence.
As in the city they're the only source
Of government and law, so in the camp
They form each enterprize, direct each motion.
And, by the gods! were government and law
Temper'd with equity, or war with justice,
I would not wish for abler lawgivers,
Or leaders.
Hold—No more, Horatius—
What! know you not that tents have often ears
Hearing distinctly? If the times are bad,
Heav'n in its mercy mend them! Pray however
But softly, lest the statues of the gods
Should turn informers too. Who passes there,
Across our path, beyond that farther tent?
Is it not Collatine, who lately married
Lucretius's daughter?
Trust me, she's reported
The fairest, and the worthiest of her sex.
Fairer than ever was a form created
By youthful fancy, when the blood strays wild,
And never-resting thought is all on fire.
The worthiest of the worthy; not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallow'd walks,
And whisper'd in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her; the young choir
Of vestal virgins bend to her. 'Tis wonderful
Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds
Which now spring rise from the luxurious compost
Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,
How from the shade of these ill-neighbouring plants,
Her father shelter'd her, that not a leaf
Is blighted, but array'd in purest grace
She blooms unsullied verdure. Such her beauties,
As might call back the torpid breast of age
To long-forgotten rapture; such her mind,
As might abash the boldest libertine,
And turn desire to reverential love,
And holiest affection.
From a praise
So warm, a stranger might form some conclusions.
I speak as an acquaintance, as a friend,
But yet impartially, not sway'd by passion,
But as I really think; had life's gay prime
Presented such an object to my view,
You would have thought me mad in my applause,
I should have flown above the shining spheres
Of th' azure vault for new comparisons,
Yet then not thought them hyperbolical.
I loved my wife; I praised her; but the height
I raised her to, reached not to this Lucretia;
Though since I've thought it much surpass'd the truth.
Here transport would have urged me far beyond
All sober bounds, and yet close by my side
Reason would have stood, smiling to see herself
So justly superseded.
Such a prodigy
Should have a husband of no vulgar mould;
But Collatine, I see him ev'ry where,
The princes intimate, at their carousals,
The first in noise, and mirth, and jollity,
Of the unruly crew.
You are deceiv'd,
He's young, perhaps unsteady, flexible,
And yielding to example: though indeed
As a relation, and being near to th' king,
I don't see how, if 'twas his inclination,
He could do otherwise: but he possesses
Many good qualities, is gentle, kind,
And generous, wants not courage, and I know
Doats with the most impassion'd tenderness
Upon Lucretia. Haply 'tis in hopes
To ease his mind from the sharp grief of absence,
That thus he mingles with the festive train,
And joins the roar of idle rioting
And dissipation; though I ne'er observ'd
He join'd it heartily. I've seen him oft
Lost in reflection there, and oft alone
Musing in melancholy, as just now
Thou saw'st him when he pass'd us, meditating
With his eyes cast on th' ground. But let us haste
To the king's tent.
Before—I'll follow you.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Collatia.
LUCRETIA, LAVINIA.
How long is it, Lavinia, since my lord
Hath chang'd his peaceful mansion, for the camp
And restless scenes of war?
Why, in my simple estimation, Madam,
'Tis some ten days, or thereabout, for time
Runs as it shou'd with me, in yours it may be
Perhaps ten years.
And what should make thee think so?
Nay, I know not; but I have heard folks say—
I think my grandam—yes, my grandam 'twas—
That she, when she was young, in days of yore,
And parted from her newly-married husband,
Found the whole method of time's progress chang'd,
Instead of wings t' his back, posting in haste,
And flitting by so quick, you could not seize him
By his lank lock, a gouty, hobbling wretch,
That noting of the pain he took in walking,
Gave sympathetic pangs.—She was a shrewd one,
And had, if I'd believe her, in her spring
Felt all the power of love. Oh, she could talk
E'en then of purling streams, and cooing doves,
And of the arms clasp'd thus, and brow bent thus,
Of aking hearts, and such a deal of stuff,
That had I not e'en from my tender years
Been guarded well by the superior powers,
I should have sought me out a swain and married,
And now perhaps been moaning for the absence
Of my true trutle.
So thy heart ne'er knew
What 'twas to love?
No, I thank holy Vesta,
Never; I've cast indeed sometimes the eyes
Of approbation on a proper man,
But never sent deep glances; off they darted
From him upon another; O, my heart!
What 'twas to love! Why men are all alike,
All mothers' sons.
Thou hast a gadding tongue,
But still thy mind is right; thou hast no meaning
Affix'd to what thou utter'st.
None to speak of.—
All that I mean, is, that if I were married,
And that my husband were call'd forth to th' wars,
I should not stray through the grove next my house,
Invoke the pensive solitude, and wooe
The dull and silent melancholy, brood
O'er my own thoughts alone, or keep myself
Within my house mew'd up a prisoner.
I should do like the rest of my sex, repair
To company and noise; 'tis for philosophers
To love retirement; women were not made
To stand up like to statues in a niche,
Or feed on their own secret contemplations.
Go to; thou know'st not what thou say'st, Lavinia,
'Tis for the light of heart, to range abroad,
To brave the general and licentious eye,
To mingle with the fickle, trifling crew
Of merriment, who laugh aloud, if Folly
Shake but the cap upon her head, or lift
Her finger up before their face. The praise
Of woman is to play the housewife well;
Ambitious in her husband's sight t' appear
Grateful and amiable, not indeed careless
Of others, but preferring him to all,
And his society; not cloying neither,
But manifested in a way known only
To nice affection, and distinguished by it:
'Tis hers with care to oversee his family,
And govern with sure reins of government,
No easy task.
Jove bless us! what is this?
If a superior place in life give not
The power of tasting greater liberty,
Of dancing to the honey'd notes of gladness,
And walking hand in hand with dainty pleasure,
If that the dame of rank must act the house-cat,
Sit at the hole and watch, and cry bo-peep,
Or sing herself asleep; the peasant's wife,
Or dull mechanick's, is as happy, nay
And happier, as by necessity
Tied ever down, she knows she must comply,
And feels she can't attain what most she wishes.
And why should I believe she wishes more
Than she possesses? Why not think there is
A jewel call'd content? Why circumscribe
The habitation of true happiness
Within the narrow, gawdy, idle circle
Of swelling wealth, and air-blown, empty pomp?
Why think she cannot dwell with humble duty
Beneath the hut of uncemented stones
Covered with flags, well pleas'd to tend her children
Healthy and smiling babes, and when her husband
Comes from the field, and pacing by his side
Her elder sturdy boy, spring t'ward the door,
And give them that sincerity of welcome
Which greatness never saw? with busy care
And sedulous prepare their evening viands;
List to the scant adventures of the day,
What passing stranger rowsed their faithful dog,
What tree secured them from the scatter'd shower,
What distant undistinguish'd noise they heard,
And having drawn in their brief chronicle,
And thereto added her own little journal,
With mutual interchanged looks of love,
Retire to rest unbroken? No, Lavinia,
The true delight, I'm well convinced, dwells there
With nature and her offspring; and if those
To whom 'tis giv'n beneath the cedar roof
High over-arch'd to sit, would relish life,
They must as far as possible pursue
Her paths unhackney'd, and must imitate
Her unaffected simpleness.
Ah, me!
I much suspect there are two natures then;
For ever since I was a tiny thing,
Not higher than this, I warrant, I have thought
Of nothing all the live-long day, but shew,
And glitter, and rich toys, and ornaments;
And I have gone to bed, and in my sleep
Have dream'd I had them; then with the greatest pleasure
Have waked, and wept full bitterly to find.
That I was disappointed. I must own
I have no notion of that other nature.
Give me things quite the ontrary, give me
To enjoy life, like I know who; some ladies
And those of the best quality in Rome
Possess a pretty comfortable share
Of that same nature I esteem the best.
Let others act as they think fit, nor let it
Be call'd in them a fault to please themselves,
In me a virtue.—But I thank the gods
Who made me what I am; who gave to me
A father whose indulgent tenderness
More than supplied a mother's loss, who died
E'er memory set her stamp on my heart's tablet;
Who taught me wealth was dross, and that the mind
Possess'd of conscious virtue, is more rich
Than all the sunless hoards which Plutus boasts.
Oft would he say, O, my beloved daughter,
I've tried (nor yet in vain) to set thee right;
To ope' thine eyes against the Siren charms
Of vanity, deluding womankind;
Act to approve thyself to thine own heart;
Despise the ideot custom, which breaks down
The fence which ever should remain strong built
Between the sexes: woman's chiefest glory
Is in retirement, and her highest pleasure
Results from home-born and domestic joys.
Hear me, Lucretia! so shalt thou obtain
The crown of woman, a deserving husband;
Who not a prisoner to the eye alone,
A fair complexion, or melodious voice,
Shall read thee deeper, nor shall time which palls
The rage of passion, shake his firmer love
Increasing by possession.—This, (again I thank
The gracious gods) this husband too is mine.
I should be glad to see this husband now:
These eyes are not the sharpest in the world:
Is not that he, gay as the morning lark,
And laughing with the sons of Tarquin there?
His heart is bent on mirth: he thinks not, he,
(Like other absent men) of his Lucretia:
He did not hear a syllable o' th' praise
Her tongue just now bestow'd.
No more, no more
Lest I be angry with thee for a fault
Thou can'st not help, thy tongue runs idly.—
Yet say e'en what thou wilt, I'm not offended.
Then I will say, I don't believe that lady
Hath truer lord, more fix'd in loyalty.
And how can he be otherwise? Were I
In his condition, fickle as I am,
And wavering in affection, a true woman,
Unschool'd, untaught by father or by mother,
I should cast anchor, and forbid my bark
Ever to leave the port.—What shall I say?
Unless I say, that now I speak the truth
E'en from my heart.
I know full well thy honesty.
Come, let us in, and we will talk together
Of the stern dangers which attend on war,
And rouse the passion fear. I know not how,
But there is something grateful to the soul
Even in terror; though we dread th' event,
'Tis pleasing while 'tis but imagined.
That my fears ever may be realiz'd
In thee, O Collatine, ye gods forbid!
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
The King's tent.
TARQUIN, TITUS, ARUNS, SEXTUS.
MY glory, and my pride! my three bold sons!
Whom I rejoice in more, than in th' increase
Of empire and dominion! Where's the king
Can say with me, his children are his senators,
His judges, and his generals? while you
The first supply, I find they were as I
Esteem'd them justly, mere superfluous branches
To the commonweal, which I with prudent hand
Have lopp'd. For government can't be too simple,
Torn by variety of ranks and orders,
Action is lost in fruitless canvassing,
Empty harrangues, and vain deliberation:
While vigorous enterprize, amid the jar
Of bickering parties dares not shew his face.
No secrecy observed, the enemy
Knows well the bent of every expedition
As soon as plann'd, and as th' event's foreseen,
Prepares against it warily, and strongly.
Is this to be a king? Oh, only name
Of royalty! in fact a vassal slave
Tied down and manacled, condemn'd to act
Not from himself, but as by others tutor'd.
While some bold party swallowing up the rest,
Seizes the reins of empire, and bestows
All the offices of trust. He, flimsy shadow,
Titular monarch, cannot help himself:
But like a wretched fisher in a boat,
From which the sails are rent by the rude winds,
The rudder clove asunder, and oars lost,
Still rides indeed upon the billows backs
Born by the flux and reflux of the tides
At random, till despair and famine end
His miserable life, or the crazed hulk
Admit the briny wave, then both together
Sink in the deep, and ne'er are heard of more:
Who'd be a king like this?
Who would, my father!
Rather would I betake me to the plough,
And till with utmost toil a land ungrateful,
A barren desart, where but here and there
A blade of corn would rise, and my whole harvest
Scarce serve to keep body and soul together,
Till the next year's return, Such servitude
Were not to be sustain'd, 'twere worse than death.
Still keep these sentiments, my son; they shew
The man, not the poor-spirited mean creature
That generally is call'd so, but the man
Born to command, to lord it o'er these earth-worms,
To sit in the exalted seat of empire,
And wield the sceptre; to be plac'd a god
Above the rest, as the gods are 'bove him.
Had I been guided by the moderate maxims
Of doating politicians, had I not
Acted on principles which my soul started,
And hands dared execute, I should have lived
Coop'd up within the walls of Rome, and call'd
Only that petty city, those few acres,
My sum of territory: have pursued
The canting superstitions of old Numa;
Or thought, with Ancus, that to build a bridge
Or thought, with Ancus, that to build a bridge
Over the Tiber was a wonderous work;
Or, like old purblind Servius, have recorded
Offices, ages, deaths, births, marriages,
And kept the public register o'th' state.
But I resolved to rise above controulment,
To seize the glorious substance of true majesty,
To be a king indeed; and men are not
The restive beings some have but supposed:
They on timidity encroach, but dare not
Look settled resolution in the face.
Habit makes even slavery easy. Hence
I turn'd my conquering arms 'gainst all the states
Around, and made Hetruria pale with fear:
Now may the proudest nation yield to Rome,
And own her its superior; hence I'm honour'd,
Dreaded abroad, and courted; hence at home
Absolute lord; and hence shall leave my children
A stable throne, which shall continue firm
To latest ages, if not wantonly,
Or foolishly, they deviate from my steps.
May Titus perish, if he deviate wantonly!
And Aruns, if he deviate foolishly!
And Sextus, if he deviate either way!
I know you better each, than to suspect you;
Nor think that my example, or my precepts,
Have been so little view'd, or weigh'd so lightly.
Keep but you three together, in the band
Of mutual fix'dness, and you may defy
Time, and th' adversity of accident,
Or force of malice.—But, my sons, the reason
Of this our meeting; this strong city Ardea,
Like to a mighty mound, dams up the current
Of our progression; were but this our own,
The whole Rutilian state of course would follow.
The question is, how to attain this end?
Assault we've tried, and wept our hardy veterans
Slain in th' unequal task; their walls are high,
And in few places only they're assailable;
Th' inhabitants are numerous, and resolv'd
To sell their freedom dear; plenty as yet
Makes them high-mettled, and they laugh to scorn
Us and our strength. Speak each what you advise,
Whether again t' advance our scaling-ladders,
And strive with fire and sword to gain admission;
Or whether change our siege into blockade,
And starve them to surrender. Titus, speak.
I see no reason here for much debate,
Or many words to fix determination.
Our soldiers with their late successless toil
Dispirited and faint; theirs with the contrary
Valiant and bold: again, th' uncertainty
Of being more successful than before,
The probability that we shall not;
Th' ill consequences if we make th' assault
In vain; all tempt me to dissuade from action;
To gird the city well, harrass the country,
Debar them from supplies, sap their high walls,
Wait till we gain a lucky time for onset,
Or deep-laid stratagem; this gives a conquest
Certain, tho' slow; and this do I advise.
Think not I speak through contradiction, Titus:
But I can bring as many arguments,
As cogent too, and couch them full as briefly,
Why we should not delay; in every sally
Made since that trial, they've been beat to th' gates;
This hath restored the courage of our soldiers;
And shame now adds a double sting to bravery.
Delay breeds relaxation in our duty.
The Rutili and their allies may join,
Hem us between them and the walls of Ardea,
Or march to Rome itself. Delay breeds danger.
I do not like delay; it is a word
I hate; 'tis ominous as the raven's croak;
It bears with it a cold and death-like sound.
Might I but lead the army once again
To the attack, I'd be myself the first
To mount the wall, and answer for th' event:
If not, let the events speak for themselves,
Or speak you for them who determine otherwise.
Could I by sly imposture hope to win
This Ardea, as I did the town of Gabii,
I would again submit my back to th' scourge,
And from my father's cruelty, a suppliant,
Intreat the gull'd inhabitants; nor wait
His hint, by cutting down the tallest poppies
I'th' presence of the messenger I sent him,
To slay their leaders. If this could be done,
Or any thing like this, I'd not advise
Speedy assault, or to protract the siege,
In both of which I can espy no small
Degree of danger. Titus well advises,
And so doth Aruns. A small grain would turn
The scale in either's favour. If our father
Determine for th' assault, about it speedily,
I'll climb to the top o'th' wall as soon as Aruns.
If Titus shall be thought t' have better counsell'd,
I'll watch the turn of every circumstance;
And hard it shall be, if some dexterous craft
Suit not with th' opportunity which must
I'th' course of things present itself.
I wish
That circumstance may offer; if it doth,
I doubt not of thy ready apprehension.
Aruns must be o'er-ruled; he knows my temper
As little brooks delay as his, but ardour
Must yield to the necessity o'th' times.
Aruns is pleased, if every one is pleased,
He yields contentedly, is quite resign'd.
Enter
Brutus.
Say, what would'st thou?
Horatius and Herminius
And others the centurions of the army,
Came with me to the door o'th' tent; they ask
If 'tis your pleasure they should be admitted?
Horatius and Herminius may come in,
Let the rest to their tents, these two shall bear
Our orders.
Enter
Horatius
and
Herminius.
Say, Horatius and Herminius,
Whether you, either of you, know a reason
Of any force, why we should not block up
This town of Ardea, and by protracting
The time, render ourselves more sure of conquest?
With freedom speak.
I have but only one.
Kept from their homes so long, the populace
Already thither cast a longing eye;
They had been taught t'expect an easy prey,
With speed to be obtain'd; I fear their murmurs—
Say'st thou, the murmurs of the populace!
Shall I be moved by th' many-headed beast?
No: if thou dost not know these truths already,
Learn them of me. The grosser herd of men
Nature hath mark'd for servitude, to bear
The yoke with passive neck, and walk in trammels.
Woe to the king, who gives a tittle up
To th' unsoul'd brutal rabble! He shall find,
When 'tis too late, and sorely rue his folly.
Stop a wild horse when he hath slipp'd his bit,
Stick close your knees, and make him slack his pace
At your command; guide him with gentle words,
And tell him that he should not throw his rider.
Who talks of liberty, he means licentiousness;
Let the fat soil put forth that dangerous weed
But one poor inch, and you shall see it rise
With growth gigantic, till it reach to heaven
And blast the golden firmament. He knows
But little of mankind, who thinks by mild
And gentle usage to exact obedience.
What follows? Mean opinion of his talents,
Contempt, then Discontent is quickly seen
To ope her muttering mouth, close on whose heels
Treads bold Conspiracy and rank Rebellion.
I know them well; fond of variety,
And novel change; bold where they see no sign
Of opposition, like the high-swoln tide,
Through every open gap they rush amain.
I know them well, the slavish animals,
Let them but see the sternly-frowning face
Of awful majesty, let but authority
Lift high her iron whip, and they will cringe
And creep before your face like spaniel dogs,
Nor dare to wag a tongue, or move a limb,
Or even draw their breath, or let the strokes
Of their quick-palpitating hearts be heard.
I know them well; they cannot bear indulgence,
It breeds corrupted humours in their minds,
And subtile venom, which would blast the world
Like the wing'd plague.—The murmurs of the populace!
Why let the populace still murmur on;
Like the vague murmurs of the empty gale,
They blow at random, and soon pass away:
You cannot trace the wrinkles which they made
On the smooth ocean's face; 'tis the fierce voice
O'th' ruinating whirlwind which must rouse
The godhead from his deep abode, and cause him
Display his angry trident.
Might I speak,
I would presume to say, Herminius meant not
Aught derogating from your power of majesty;
But from his real fears, and his good-will—
I do not think he did: but let him learn
Henceforth, if he will needs produce his reasons,
To produce better; nor dare tell a lion,
That he must not chace down his prey, because
A swarm of gnats buz in the path he takes.
There's one, ere Tarquin tells his resolution,
Whose sage opinion hath not yet been ask'd.
I beg his pardon, and will ask it strait.
Well, kinsman Lucius, what is thy advice?
Shall we with speedy onset, or delay,
Subdue these Ardeates?
Humph! humph!—No, no—
That scheme won't do—I have it here, but cannot
Express myself in presence quite so full
As I could wish: but e'er long time is pass'd,
I hope t'acquaint you with a plan of mine,
By which the greatest enemies of Rome
Shall sink before her; but as yet excuse,
If I conceal the principles I go on.
We do, and render thanks for thy good-will:
And, Lucius, when thy plot is ripe, acquaint us.
Full many a year have we experience had
Of thy sagacity in admonition,
And quick dispach in business.—'Tis determined
To slack the arm of war, and give it rest.
The sword be still; but let pale meagre hunger
Scowl in their streets, and let the torrid thirst
Parch them without remorse; extremity
Must conquer, and to that these haughty Ardeates
Must yield perforce. Be't yours, Horatius,
And yours, Herminius, to acquaint the people
With our resolves; tell them, that tho' 'tis slow,
Yet the possession of the town is sure.
Enlarge upon the riches of the place,
Which must be theirs, if patience be but theirs.
Quiet their murmurs, if they will be quieted;
If not, our will is fix'd, and dread example
Shall punish the seditious.
We shall do
As we're commanded.
[
Exit
Tarquin.
Has any one seen Collatine this evening?
We saw him as we came towards this tent;
He cross'd our way to th' right, and we soon miss'd him.
He should be with us at our feast to-night.
I know his haunts. The gentleman of late,
Since he was married, is grown melancholy—
No wonder that, you'll say: I'll undertake
To find him out, however, and produce him
At the appointed time.
[
Exit
Aruns.
You'll sup with us.
We shall, my Lord.
And thou, without all doubt.
I pray excuse me. May I be excused
This once?
By no means. Why, I tell thee what;
Thou art the life, the soul of company;
Such wit, such humour, and facetiousness,
As thou possessest, more especially
When the brisk flagon hath been circling round,
And the young god, with laughter in his eye,
Expands the liberal soul; why I would rather
Not feast for half an age, than want thy company.
Without thy flighty bursts of merriment,
Wine would be quite insipid, and the hours
Drag sluggishly their heavy heels along.
Say you so? There's my hand, if I don't meet you,
And be as merry as the best of you,
And rally with as good an air and smart,
And cut my joke, and laugh at it myself
As loud as you, and shew the wit in my teeth,
Call me an ass, the stupid animal
I most abhor.
Strange that he should abhor
His nearest of kin.
Come, let us hence; this night our brows shall shine
With the gay glories of the god of wine;
We'll seize the leisure which this calm shall yield,
And for the foaming bowl, lay by the spear and shield:
If ne'er relax'd war's sinews would be faint,
The bow is useless which is always bent.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE II.
Another Part of the Camp.
ARUNS, CLAUDIUS.
Where was he when thou saw'st him, Claudius?
My lord, between the camp, and where our troops
Possess the neighbouring heights, where thrown across
The hasty brook, a rafter bridge is seen
O'erlain with sod which totters as you pass;
There, where beyond, a path winds up the bank
Trod only by the cottager, who lived
Hard by, at morn, and 'eve, while fortune smiled,
Now exiled by our arms; beneath an oak
Whose bare top, of its leaves bereaved, and trunk
Dented with thunder, like a veteran looks,
Who many a hard campaign hath weather'd out,
Cover'd with scars, yet tho' with sinews shrunk
And pithless limbs now bending o'er his staff,
Still claiming veneration: there lay Collatine
In musing wise, a knotted root o'th' tree
Upheld him half-reclined, his eyes were fix'd,
Nor did he see me as I quick brush'd by;
When I had passed the bridge, I turn'd me round,
And saw him suddenly spring from the earth,
And dart into the grove, where 'mid the boughs
And thickening under-wood I lost him soon.
And where hast thou been school'd? Where hast thou got
This tedious dull prolixity? this quaint
Descriptive fribbling coxcomb-like minuteness?
This web spun from the vacant brain? O Jove!
Lash me, and lash me well these trite describers!
These murderers of clear language and intelligence!
I ask'd thee where thou mett'st with Collatine?
Hadst thou but told me, in the neighbouring wood
South of the camp, say should I not have found him
As easily as now? Besides the trouble
Of seeing in my mind a clumsy painting
Drawn by a bungling artist? Pr'ythee learn,
At least when I ask a plain question of thee,
To give as plain an answer. Gracious powers!
And is the gift of speech of so small value
That we must lavish it away thus prodigally
As 'twere a trifling knick-knack? Oh, reform,
Reform—No words; reform, and hold thy tongue.
My lord, to pleasure you in every thing
Shall still be my endeavour.
No, it will not,
I bade thee but this moment lock thy lips;
Why, but because I liked thy silence best?
But hence; thou know'st the horse we saw to-day;
Dost thou not recollect it? Find me out
Its owner; understand'st thou? 'Tis the horse
Which I so much admired; dost thou remember?
The chesnut with the hyacinthin mane:
Enquire me out its owner; let him know
I would possess that horse.
My lord, I will.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Grove near the Camp.
Whence are thy charms, ambition? I have look'd
With piercing eyes but none can I perceive.
Why art thou so pursued by human kind?
Is it that thou lift'st thy aspiring front,
Despising earth, and all her groveling sons
And bidding bold defiance to the gods?
Is it that, cruelty thy foster-mother,
Thou laugh'st at pity, dropping the humane
And tender briny drop o'er sacred misery?
Is it that, like a whore, thou leavest thy lovers,
And to the first new-comer brought by fortune,
Thy ancient bawd, givest all thy joys? the joys
Which unessential power presented to thee,
Begot on lawless thirst of fancied greatness?—
For what is power, if taught not its due aim
By wide-dispensing goodness? What is greatness,
If singular it stands, self-vivified,
Self-taught, self-loving, self-possessing, all
Center'd in self, detach'd from what gives to it
Its substance, its inestimable worth,
And true original intrinsic value.
The willing tributary love of those
Who feel its warm irradiance, and rejoice?
I see no graces in thy towering look,
In thy unfeeling mind, in thy deceit
And treacherous air, thy sceptre sway'd in vain,
And grandeur dazzling fools.—Thou cursed sorceress!
Whose birth the furies smiled when they beheld,
And shook their snaky locks! Thou bane of peace!
Of every pure, and every holy tie,
Connecting man with man!—Could prayers avail,
Oh, hear me, heaven! drive to her native hell
This harpy pest, and chain her firmly there,
That she may ne'er embroil the world again,
But harmony may reign, and peace, and love,
And friendship's bright, unsullied, maiden fire,
And every grace and virtue.
Enter
ARUNS.
Whom have we here?
Say, man of melancholy mood, what dost thou
Moping alone? Beneath th' umbrageous boughs
Of this deep wood, what secret wizard spells
Exert'st thou to enslave the struggling moon?
To make the wolves howl, and the shepherd-dogs
Start from their unsound sleep? To make the trees
Set free their earth-clench'd roots, the rivers turn
Back to their source, and the old bed-rid earth
Tremble for fear? Nay, do not think I view thee
With dreadful apprehension. Did thy eyes
Glance fire, as sure I think the rays are dim;
Thy mouth spit flames, as sure it never will;
Didst thou lead growling in thy right hand chain'd
Th' infernal triple-headed dog, as now
I think I only spy a pine-branch there,
I'd tell thee with unterrified aspect
Thou art my prisoner. Come along with me.
Dost thou draw back? What reason can'st thou urge?
Sextus expects thee at his feast to-night;
I am for thy appearance bound to answer;
I heard that thou wert here, and come to bear thee
Willing or not. Come, leave to-night thy love
Of solitude e'en in this place, and meet her
To-morrow morning if thou wilt and welcome.
My lord, I am not well, I'm very sick.
Sick! and by what physician's wise advice
Walk'st thou expos'd to the damp evening air?
Hangs not the dew upon the dropping leaves?
And doth not Philomela, at the pause
Of every pensive strain, turn back her head
And wipe the trickling moisture from her wing?
Go to, thou art not sick.
Indeed, I am.
Indeed thou art! thy hand: ah! ah! I know
A lover's pulse: rather a wencher's: ah!
Were I to beat the bushes well around
'Tis ten to one but up the hare would start.
There are three kinds of men, whom I have found
Most notable that way.—First your shy fellows,
Who hang the head, and if you speak to them,
Are blushing ripe immediately. Next those
Who shun society, and swear that man
Is a curst creature whom they cannot live with.
Thirdly and lastly, all religious,
Of all denominations. These three kinds
Of men, have all hot amorous blood, which tingles
Through every vein, and will not give them rest.
Among the second thou comest in point blank,
A mixture hast thou of the first and third;
Though were the gods to shake thee, thy religion
Might fall from thee for aught I know, as fast
As leaves blown from a sapless tree in Autumn.
Dost thou then think it hangs so loosely round me?
Were it indeed bound with firm bands of brass,
And knit with pins of hardest adamant,
Whatever of religion I might have,
Were Aruns but permitted, soon he'd strip me,
And leave me naked as himself.
I own, I have no notion of these tricks,
These ceremonial farces, sacrifices,
Prophetic entrails, truth-foreseeing birds,
Chicken who teach by hieroglyphic pease,
And all the holy jugglings, which our priests
Would fain persuade us owe their origin
To th' essences divine.—Wilt thou deny
That Numa's nymph Egeria, was a strumpet,
Who met him often in a wood like this?
What profits my denying or affirming?
But say, is Aruns likewise ignorant
Of that pure incense which the breast unspotted
Offers to heaven; that fine ethereal fire
Which by the gods created first, and placed
I' th' human bosom, sed by the fair deeds
Of moral goodness, rectitude, and truth,
Flies upward to its native origin?
Hath he no notion of that holy instinct
Which bids us look with awe, t'ward the great Ruler
Of heaven and Earth? and of that conscious pleasure
Arising in the soul, when bending low,
In humble reverence, we pay homage due
To the prime Power of all? Who call'd us forth
From the abyss of nothing into being?
Placed us above th' unthinking grazing herd?
Gave to us reason, by whose power we stand,
Foremost of all his works, lords of this world?
Who framed the universe for us alone;
And, for our pleasure? hung the flaming sky
With all its glowing orbs? Adorn'd the earth
With fruits, with flowers, and herbs of various sorts?
Fill'd earth, and air, and ocean's womb immense
With subject creatures, who might yield him homage,
Or be to him for food? Hast thou no notion?
Plague on thy notions! Plague upon thy questions!
Think'st thou the gods high-throned (if such there be)
E'er heed such sneaking abject two-legg'd animals
As thou and I are? From our praise what glory
Can they obtain? Or from our first existence
What satisfaction? Speculative dreamers
May fancy things like these; but chief your busy
Crafty pretenders, who well know to soothe
The ear of ignorance, tell these curious tales.
They know to profit by't. The easy fool
Swallows their canting potion glibly down,
And looks on them as heaven's own oracles.
'Tis all a jest, a may-game, or what's worse;
Whatever knaves may teach, or asses credit,
Ease is the pleasure of th' immortal gods,
And interest is the god of mortal men.
Easy 'twould be to prove, how ill they merit
The name of deities, who sit inactive
In slothful state, while chance, that is, while nothing
Governs the world, and turns heaven's hinges round.
To prove, that man is from contemptible
Far, far removed; that there are some of real
And undissembled piety, who feel
What they profess, and from these feelings teach;
Who in the exercise of their devotion,
Taste greater joy than kings have power to give:
Nor would for th' unlock'd wealth of the wide earth,
Offend 'gainst that fixt monitor within.
Easy it were these things to prove to ears
Of sober sense, and serious meditation.
Oh, mock me not! I am as serious
As father Winter, when the cold north-east
Blowing between his shoulders through a chink,
Brooding he sits, and rakes the embers up,
In his ill-furnished heart.—To prove it, hence!
Take it, ye winds! 'Tis my religion—hence!
Lighten'd of this, now Collatine and I
May talk together without quarrelling.
I know not what 'tis good for, but to make
Men sour, and splenetic: I'll ne'er speak more
Or for it, or against it. Pr'ythee, Collatine,
Forgive me, if in too impertinent
And bold a strain I spake in its defence:
'Twas irony, my friend, sheer irony,
I thank thee that thou didst retaliate;
I see th' absurdity, and bid a long
Adieu to it for ever.—Hold thy tongue.—
'Tis gone, 'tis hence, 'tis no where, 'tis a theme
For priests, for ideots: thou hast cured me quite;
I have no qualms, not one, away! away!
Adieu!—'tis well.—And now, my Collatine,
I pr'ythee tell me, nay without a jest,
In earnest seriousness, what dost thou here?
And what employ'd thy meditations
When first I saw thee?
Wilt thou tell me, Aruns,
How I shall answer thee? for never yet
That I remember did I give to thee
An answer thou wert pleased withal; if grave,
'Twas mighty dull, if gay, 'twas vastly silly;
E'en answer for me, Aruns, here I am:
Look round; what say the objects which thou see'st?
What say the objects which thou left'st behind?
The objects which I left behind, are good;
The objects which I see are good; all's good;—
I should not speak at all.—A camp, a wood,
A wood, a camp.—Why I might beat my brains
For ever, e'er rouse up one new idea.—
Thou art indeed a moralizer, thou
Canst pick a sentence out of every stone,
And make the springy grass on which thou tread'st
Thy monitor. I'm stupid; fancy with me
Is long since dead; to each external thing
I'm as indifferent as if they never
Fill'd up their corner of existence. Blessing
Upon the Powers above! who steel'd my nerves,
And blunted every sentient faculty,
So that in vain, they'd dart before my sight
Their flaming thunderbolt.—But what of me?
I from this time appoint thee my preceptor.
I have improved already, I'll improve
Still more, tell me thy meditations.
I will, nor do I think, what I'd not utter
To all mankind. I wish with equal truth
All the whole world could say so.—I will own
I came not to the camp with my good will:
I have no quarrel 'gainst the Ardeates,
They never injur'd me, nor do I know
A Roman whom they did: but 'twas my duty,
I was commanded, and obey'd; where danger
Raged in the fight, I was not backward: thou
Canst witness for me, 'mid the foremost bands
I braved the ruffian Death.—My mind's my own;
My service is my king's. I own I pitied
Those against whom I fought; nor wish'd to conquer
The brave, the injured. 'Mid the roar of war
I long'd for peace, and when the fight was o'er,
I would have found it in my tent; but there
It was denied; if I gave up one moment
To short reflection, strait intruded on me
Shoals of your new-created officers:
Pert coxcombs, who in words flame in the front,
And stare each terror of the field i'th' face;
Though when in arms, half-dead, they only know
Each motion by report: these brother soldiers
(For such they scruple not to call themselves)
Worried my ears to death: I left the camp.
No wonder: such as these disgrace the name
Of manhood; oft I've seen them pale and wan
Not dare to lift an arm against the foe,
Yet talk at such a swelling boisterous rate,
As they would equal our god ancestor,
And slay whole hosts alone.
Quite discontented with myself and them,
I hither came.—I cast my eyes around,
I saw the labours of the husbandman
Destroy'd; I saw the smoaking villages;
A thousand horrid thoughts of misery
Struck on my mind; I heard a thousand groans
Of fathers, mothers, children.—I could not
Refrain from tears, I could not as I live,
To think that industry, and innocence,
And sweet content, and genial home-bred joy,
Should from their native mansions be expell'd,
And their possessors slain perhaps by th' hands
Of brutal violence; or doom'd to lead
A life not worth the name, the prey of want,
Of woe, of anguish; 'twas indeed with tears
I thought upon it, and each human glory
Faded before me.
'Twas most lamentable,
And melancholious; I could weep methinks,
At the relation, had I not sworn solemnly,
When some years since lost in the melting mood
I play'd the fool egregiously, ne'er more
To weep at any rate.—These are sweet feelings;
I lose a deal of joy, I know full well,
By not indulging them: but 'tis no matter.—
What a fine tale hast thou been telling me,
Of troublesome companions, dismal sights,
And soft compassion melting into tears!—
Think'st thou I can't see through all these pretences?
Once, but not lately, once, when yet a boy,
I felt I know not what of odd emotions;
The peevish, amorous, whining, doating god
Had with his arrow pierced my liver through.
When absent from my love; but not my wife;
I sigh'd, and groan'd, and shook my pensive head,
And sought out desert rocks, and nodding pines,
And murmuring streams to soothe my sickening soul.
And if a friend by chance had found me out,
And ask'd what ail'd me, Ail me, gravely said I,
I'm pitying the vices of the world,
And thinking of its follies; though myself
Was then a child of folly, and as true a one
As any she e'er bore; a woman's fool.—
But do not weep again: when these same wars,
These cursed wars, are over, it shall see
Its own true love again; yes, that it shall,
It shall, it shall.
Now may I die—
No false professions, good my friend; die say'st thou!
No, live; live while thou may'st;—we stand upon
A hanging bank fast crumbling in the stream
Of headlong time; if swoll'n by rains, or vex'd
By raging winds, perhaps an hour, a moment,
Sweeps us away; and shall we aid, ourselves,
Each fatal accident? Heap up a load
Upon our shoulders, doubling our own weight,
And plunging in the waves before our day?—
Likest thou the metaphor? Come then with me;
And we'll to-night laugh off these clogging weights;
So that at least we will insure ourselves
Some twelve hours longer; hence with discontent;
Why should we purse our brows up, when the hand
Of youth, would keep them smooth? Come we're expected;
Sextus will have no Nay; and go with me
Willing or not, you must.
Well, I will follow;
Go you before.
No, thou shalt with me go.
If once the fowler cast aside his eyes,
The stricken bird he thought a destined prize,
Hides in the sedge; he looks around in vain,
The shy eluder ne'er shall he obtain.
[Exeunt.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
The Tent of
Sextus.
SEXTUS, TITUS, ARUNS, BRUTUS, COLLATINUS, HORATIUS, HERMINIUS,
And others, as drinking after the Banquet.
I Say it was not right, it was not right,
[
To
Herminius.
And had you been in Greece you'd have learn'd otherwise;
Contrary to all the rules of war! Why, look ye,
Sir;—What's your name?—You know no more o'th' matter
Than a crack'd egg.—A general indeed!—
What signify numbers?—Superiority!
I say superiority is a word
I have no complaisance for;—No, Sir, none;—
And I would beat the Rutili, though their armies
Were full of superiorities.
He would, indeed.
You stand no chance, Herminius, if you talk
With Brutus on the art of war.
I think so;
I think so truly; let my head alone
For th' art of war; I have a brain, I have;—
Look ye—the art of war—is a fine art:
You must not talk with me, indeed you must not:
No, no.—Hard, grating task! But 'tis the end, the end.
Lie still each spark of reason, deep obscured
[Aside.
Beneath dissimulation's close-drawn veil.
I humbly ask your wisdom's pardon, Brutus;
I did not mean offence; and know in argument
I should come off with you at second best.
I do believe 't, indeed—the art of war!
You talk of th' art of war!
No more, no more;
Come, fill your glasses round till they o'erflow;
Here's to the art of war, and noble Brutus!
Here's to the art of war, and noble Brutus?
Would I'd a crown of laurel here to bind
Around the brow of Brutus, green as that
Which shades Apollo's ever-youthful front,
Ne'er fear'd by th' blasting light'ning, or burnt up
By the sun's scorching ray!—But I have none;—
What honours shall we give to noble Brutus?
Resign thy seat; create him arbiter;
And bend before him.
Yes, I'll be arbiter;—
What! we've more virtue's friends than one or two:—
Bacchus himself is but a fool to me:
I will cry Iö longer than he shall.—
I'll teach you how to drink. Come, never flinch it.—
Here's to the cultivation now of Ethics,
Ethos, our Mos, it is of Greek extraction.
Aye, and I'd have you all to know it too,
I am a scholar, that I am; and learning,
I suck'd it with my milk.
O miserable, and degraded type
Of man! unhandy and half-finish'd work
Of nature! Is this a thing to laugh at? No.
I could not laugh, though smiles were plenty with me
As th' hairs upon my head.
Come, my good Brute! why sit we still? Our lips
Are thirsty, and with earnestness desire
The beverage of the god; put round, put round.
We will so, when we please. Brute say you! Brute!
Are we not arbiter? Are we not royal?
King of the feast?—Brute! Brute, Sir, in your teeth.
What! Brute indeed!
Most noble arbiter!
Most royal king o'th' feast! if it please your greatness,
The dignity, and height of your large excellency!
Most worthy and renown'd! absolute Sir!
We're mollisied; and bear not callous ears.
Come then, here's to the fairest nymph in Italy;
And she's in Rome.
Here's to the fairest nymph in Italy;
And she is not in Rome.
Where is she then?
Ask Collatine; he'll swear she's at Collatia.
His wife!
E'en so.
Is it so, Collatine?
Well, 'tis praise-worthy in this vicious age
To see a young man true to his own spouse.—
Oh! 'tis a vicious age.—When I behold
One who is bold enough to steer against
The wind and tide of custom, I behold him
With veneration; 'tis a vicious age.
True things are spoke in jest; I like not this.
Nor I.
Our youths are waxing warm.—To my feign'd part
Pretended sleep shall give some little pause.
Princes, I ask you not to stay
Your mirth, though I'm the subject; if to love
My wife's ridiculous, I'll join the laugh;
Though haply I shall not laugh at myself.
The conscious wood was witness to his sighs,
The conscious Dryads wiped their watery eyes,
For they beheld the wight forlorn to-day,
And so did I;—but I shall not betray.—
Here now he is however, thanks to me;
That is, his semblance, for his soul dwells hence.—
How was it when you parted? She;—My love
Fear not, good sooth I'll very constant prove.—
He;—And so will I, for wherefoe'er I steer,
'Tis but this mortal clay, my soul is here.
And pr'y thee, Collatine, in what array
Did the god Hymen come to thee? How dress'd,
And how equipp'd? I fear me much he left
His torch behind, so that thou could'st not see
A fault in thy beloved, but hast since
Judg'd by the touch alone; or was the blaze
So burning bright, that thy bedazzled eyes
Have since refused their office?
And doth Sextus
Judge by his own experience then of others?
To him, I make no doubt, hath Hymen's torch
Discovered faults enow: what pity 'twas
He had not likewise in his other hand
A mirror brought, wherein t' have read himself.
'Tis well; I like thee now: and this I answer;
Now thou art gay, I will be mighty grave,
And much we shall not lose by th' interchange.
In sober sadness, this my own experience
Hath taught me; this is my opinion,
Of which I would not give a tittle up,
Though strait-laced Pallas should appear in person.
That women are most dear, delicious,
Inconstant creatures, artful, amorous,
Fruitful in schemes to please their changeful fancies,
And fruitful in resources when discovered.
Before assurance, and a tongue well-hinged,
They fall by thousands; a strait back, a leg
Well-turn'd, and nimble, cutting quick vaults well,
A lively eye, yet in their presence bending
As if o'er-awed; these, with th' aforesaid graces,
Will madden them by millions; from the girl
Who feeds on chalk, to the grave married matron
Who is so chaste, forsooth, she wipes her mouth
After her husband, lest the breath of man,
If settling there too long, should taint her virtue.
I use them as they are; their native passion,
I know, is love of novelty; however,
Others more subaltern, as love of riches,
Grandeur, and shew, may seem to over-sway it;
Hence, tho' they swear they love me wonderous well
After some little time, I know the gentle
And pretty creatures heed not the strict truth:
I know it is not for myself they love me;
So delicacy bids me rove again;
I please their darling passion, and am bless'd.
This is the common cant; the stale, gross, idle,
Unmeaning jargon of all those who, conscious
Of their own littleness of soul, avoid
With timid eye the face of modest virtue,
All those who to the name of womanhood
Join dignity of soul, and innocence
Unstain'd by inward base desire; who flush'd
With triumphs over those they dare attack,
The weak, or forward, those whose lines of feature
Proclaim there's no resistance to be made,
Or those who spring obtrusive forth, and meet
Half-way the doughty champions; strait declare,
(And fain would make their shallow notions current)
That woman-kind are all alike, all arrant
And willing daughters of the game, and hoot
At virtue, wheresoever she passes by them.
I have seen sparks like these, and I have seen
A little worthless village cur all night
Bay with incessant noise the silver moon,
While she serene, throned in her pearled car
Sail'd in full state along.—But Sextus' judgment
Owns not his words, and the resemblance glances
On others, not on him.
Let it glance where and upon whom it will,
Sextus is mighty careless of the matter.
When to the moon we stray for similes,
'Tis to be fear'd, our wit is lunatic.
However, my intent went with my words.
Now hear what I have seen: I've seen some fathers
Who have with care kept up their daughters housed,
For no deformity of mind or person;
No, not i'th' least; though wherefore otherwise
They chain them thus, heaven knows: I have seen men
Who have these monsters married; pardon me,
I meant these extraordinary beauties;
Young men indeed, and novices that way,
And they at such a rate have doated on them—
Sextus, no more, lest I forget myself,
And thee. I tell thee, prince—
I tell you both—Great king of gods and men!
Why must we tongue-tied sit, and mute, attending
To brawls like these? Are these fit offerings
For Bacchus' shrine? He, peaceful god, delights
In other gifts; a plague upon you both!
If ye must needs rail thus, stay till to-morrow,
And to it fasting.—Collatine, think not
I discommend thy warmth, it is becoming.
Indeed I rate it high in estimation;
Fidelity in love is a rare quality,
And merits praise: but how much rarer is it,
And more deserving praise in married life?
Hold, Sextus, hold for shame.
Why, pray, good Sir, may I not praise the wife
Of this same testy froward gentleman?
Her shape slender and delicate? her face
Breathing the air of beauty? her sweet eyes,
Their fire mellowly temper'd? (though I never
Beheld her in my life) yet why might not
My tongue, prompted by pregnant fancy, form her
A type of excellent perfection?
And from her person turning, (as I should,
Had I not been withheld by interruption)
Have on her many virtues descanted,
But on his cheek offence must quivering sit,
And dream'd-of insult, the abortive child
Of misconstruction, whose near-sighted eye
Discerns not jest from real?
And would Sextus
Persuade me, that I am indeed so weak,
As that my brain confused, blends opposite
And sundry kinds of phantasies together,
Letting go all distinction? that I read
The acts and words of others, always contrary
To their intent? E'en think so, there's no harm in it;
I heed it not; jest on; I'll aid your humour:
Let Aruns use me for his mirth and laughter,
And Titus deck me with ironic praise;
With all my care I'll foster the mistake;
Nor shall my self-importance undeceive you.
But when you touch a nearer, dearer subject,
Perish the man, nay, may he doubly perish,
Who can sit still, and hear with sneaking coolness,
The least abuse, or shadow of a slight,
Cast on the woman whom he loves! though here
Your praise and blame are equally alike,
Nor really add the least, or take away
From her a hundredth minim of a grain
Of her true value, more than they would add
To th' holy gods, or from their state diminish.
If that a man might dare to ope his lips
When Collatinus frowns, he, I presume,
Without incurring censure of prophaneness,
Or blasphemy 'gainst his domestic, private,
Conjugal goddess, might enlarge upon
The qualities belonging to his own.
I grant you that Lucretia is divine,
I don't deny her apotheosis:
Yet will I say my wife is not amiss,
That is, taken as a woman; your divinities
Need not regard the duties of the house,
Their minds are too sublime: 'tis theirs to range
In quest of pleasure: pleasure is divine,
And mortals must not think to grasp at it:
Yet as a woman, could my eyes but reach
As far as Rome, I make no doubt they'd see
My wife far otherwise employ'd, and better,
Far better, as a woman, than the deity
Residing at Collatia.
And mine beyond them both employ'd; more careful,
More house-wife like.
Well-timed; I'll seize th' occasion:
View this Lucretia e'er I sleep, and satisfy
My senses whether bruiting Fame says true.
[Aside.
I'll stake my life, and let us mount our horses,
And post away this instant toward Rome,
That we shall find thy wife, and his, and his,
Making the most of this their liberty.
What! 'tis the sex: enjoying to the full
The swing of licence which their husbands' absence
Affords. I'll stake my life that this is true.
And that my own (ill as I may deserve it)
Knows her state best, keeps best within the bounds
Her situation claims; that she is with her family,
While yours are feasting at their neighbours' houses,
Or rioting at home.—What say'st thou, Collatine?
Had I two lives I'd stake them on the trial,
Nor fear to live both out.
Let us away then.
With all mine heart.
And mine.
What mean you, pray?
You are not really mad!
He would retract
What he hath said; but we'll proceed to trial;
You go with us, by Jupiter.
Is't right,
Think you, had we a cause more urgent, thus
To quit the camp? Should Tarquin hear of it—
Oh, heed not Tarquin: pray you, good Sir, peace.
We'll wing our horses; well we may get there,
And back again, e'er the shrill-sounding bird
Pipe to the morning star. Yet e'er we go,
Once let the flagon circle to our wives:
What says our arbiter?
Wives! aye, aye, yes, yes, wives! there's mine
A paragon when time was; aye, and virtuous,
Chaste as the lily, aye, and prudent too,
And a good housewife; sour a little or so;
Tart, tart and humoursome. Sextus Tarquin, Sextus,
You old king's youngest son, say am I drunk?
I am not drunk, by Saturn: you are Aruns;
No, you are Sextus; ah, I love thee, Sextus;
I will be heard: what dost thou laugh at, villain?
[
To
Claudius,
who attends.
I'm arbiter I say, I'm arbiter;
And to be laugh'd at! Why Herminius,
Laugh'd at! why how, what, Oh—
[Pretends to sleep again.
What my unconquerable Brute, again
Deceas'd! quite gone! Come, crown the arbiter!
The empty bowl, sit emblem of the head
It sits upon.—Come, let us haste to horse:
I long to see this phoenix of her sex,
This earthly deity, this divine mortal,
Who hath alone possession ta'en of heaven,
And keeps out all the rest of women: a plague!
'Tis rather hard on them: rather in her
Shews not an over-burthen of good-nature,
To hoard up all perfection in herself.
Her qualities dealt forth among the rest,
Would make them oreads, dryads, no contemptible
Objects of worship—Collatine, why grave?
Tut, man, thou'rt not the first, that hath mistaken
A cloud for a substance; women have fine outsides,
Fair blushing cheeks, and modest-looking eyes,
And tongues more sost—aye, and hearts too, hearts, hearts,
My Collatinus; and in them—Come, come
Be gay.
I am not sad.
But fearful for th' event.
Not in the least.
A little.
Not a whit,
You do not know Lucretia.
But we shall.
Come, without more delay. Do you along
Horatius and Herminius?
We are ordered
On duty by the king your father.
Well,
E'en what you will.
But what of Brutus there?
Shall we take him with us?
Oh, by all means:
His shallow brain is soon o'erflowed with wine,
And soon the quick tide ebbs, and leaves him dry.
We'll to thy tent, Aruns; let him sleep here:
Just e'er we mount our horses, we'll send for him,
Though he's so poor a brute, yet some how custom
Makes necessary vile society.
Come, will you hence?
[Exeunt.
Poor, poor indeed; for no one is my friend,
And I am friend to none: but I say false,
For I'm a friend to all mankind but tyrants.
Yet have I never known the dear affinity
Which springs from mutual trust, when the full heart
Bounds to meet heart; ne'er felt the double joy
Caught from communication; and fierce grief
Hath in my breast emptied his store of arrows:
Nor have I dared seek out one kind physician
To pour his lenient balm. Pitied by some;
Laugh'd at by most; by my own wife despised;
Who for convenience wedded, as did I
For sake of offspring. Would to heaven I had not!
For I have been no father to my sons;
I could be none; their minds unschool'd, nay worse,
Corrupt; which they, I fear, and I shall rue;
And let us rue it; friendship I give up,
And tear each private tie from my fix'd heart;
Happy beyond all possibility
Of small contracted life, could I achieve
That purpose.—Could achieve! aye, that is it—
Why can I not achieve it? Oh, that gnaws!
I feel it deeply here.—The tyrant lives,
A politic tyrant; curse on 's policy!
Forever hath he kept the state in motion,
Nor given a resting-place on which to set
A foot against him. War eternally
Abroad, or works of slavery at home,
Busy the youth of Rome: these last, I know,
Ill suit their free-born minds; and discontent
Sat lowering in their looks when they left Rome.
The hopes of plunder only drew them thence,
And that forced ardour cool'd by this delay,
They murmur in their hearts, and curse the power
And wild ambition which hath brought them hither.
Enter
CLAUDIUS.
Ho! Brutus!
Say, what would'st thou?
Come with me.
Thou might'st at least have said, if I so please.
So please! the princes did not please to say so.
Go tell the princes then, whether they please
Or thou, I beat thee thus, and thus.
O Jove!
I'll ne'er jest with a fool more when he's drunk:
His wit lies in his hand.
Begone, unless
Thou waitest for the other blow; and please
To tell the princes I'll be with them strait.
[
Exit
Claudius.
This bears a face. Hold!—Let me see—To give
These madmen now the slip: and when they're gone,
Rush in the midst o'th' camp, put on myself,
And with th' impetuous language of the soul
Rouse up th' enthusiast flame.—
The soldiers, without doubt, will see the change
With wonder, and amaze: and to possess them,
Some god had wrought the miracle, would be
An holy lie, which they perhaps would swallow:
And so their passions might be work'd t' a pitch
Even of desperation, which would prove
Fatal to the arch-tyrant. But these passions
Will soon subside: and, fond of novelty,
They'll from the son expect a milder reign;
And by fair words, and silver promises,
Again be bubbled, and repent too late.
And what becomes of me? I die, nought done;
Or skulk away my life in banishment,
For ever prey'd on by remorse, not chear'd
By one faint gleam of what hath long sustain'd me,
Hope, and which still forsakes me not. Besides
His sons may have possession of the city:
And there are hostages, the wives, the children
Of all the soldiery; sure, certain pledges
Of their fidelity: Of this no more.—
As I am known to none for what I am,
To me all men are open, and discover
Their inmost thoughts; though not in words express,
Yet in the speaking motions of their eyes
And lines of face, in which my mind, unseen
As th' airy ministers, reads those of others.
Valerius is the soul of honesty,
Brave, generous, hating arbitrary sway;
So is Lucretius, so are th' prime o'th' army:
Horatius and Herminius; say to these
I should unsold myself? I will. To-night,
When I reach Rome, I'll seek out the two first;
And if I find, on trial, they are apt,
Will lay some share o'th' load on them, which I
Have borne so long alone; I think together,
E'er leaden time shall creep on many a day,
We may contrive some glorious means to free
Our bleeding country from the savage gripe
Of lawless power, heal all her festering wounds,
And once again attire her in the robes
Of godlike freedom.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Rome.
If any messenger comes from the camp,
Or with particular and urgent business,
You'll find me with Valerius: otherwise,
To whomsoe'er enquires, give for an answer
That I am gone abroad you know not whither.
I shall, my lord.
This night, in undisturb'd society,
I'll commune with Valerius. What a man!
In whom I doubt which most t' admire, the strict
Severity of manners he possesses,
And unaffected virtue, which might well
Become the days of yore, e'er Saturn left
These our Hesperian fields, and the just maid
Sought the supernal mansions; or th' unfeign'd
And pious love he bears his bleeding country;
Or the sincere, strong-beaming warmth of friendship.
Friendship! Oh, truly glorious name! not that,
Giddy and thoughtless, which instinctively
Leads t'ward a fancied good, deluded youth,
By health begotten, and quick flow of spirits,
Oft fading from the moment it is born:
Not that which courtiers deal in, and the knave
Professes to his mate, which lasts no longer
Than shines the sun of fortune; but which, proved
By true experiment, and frequent use,
Is found a settled principle, a tie
Strength'ned by habit; what is fair and honest
Link'd to what's fair and honest; sure the man
Who knows not this is wretched; he who knows it,
Can ne'er be totally unhappy.
[Exit.
Enter
BRUTUS,
to the Servant.
Belong'st thou to Lucretius?
Yes.
I pr'y thee
Tell him, unless business of consequence
Employs his time, I fain would speak with him.
He that would speak with him at present, wants
What he's not likely to obtain.
Why so?
If he's at home—
But if he's not at home.—
My if for yours.
But know'st thou where he is?
Perhaps I do; what then?
Acquaint me where
He may be spoke withal.
Bring you a message?
Came you from Tarquin?
No.
Then I know not
Where you can find him.
But he must be found;
Matters of moment have I to impart,
And what concern him nearly.
Nothing material can he have, I warrant,
His company may always well be spared.
[Aside.
I know not where he is, nor can I give
Directions where to find him; but some time
E'er midnight he'll return: or if you stay
Until the morning, chance is on your side
But you may see him.
Pr'ythee, honest friend—
Honest indeed, but not a fool, I trow.
Dost thou know me?
Oh, mighty well; good night;
I mean not to get cold by waiting on you.
[Exit.
Thus 'tis we plan; and thus our favourite schemes
Are blasted in the bud; we travel on
The road of life; we cast our sight far forward;
We think we spy the goal, our eyes are fix'd,
And fancy gives us earnest of possession:
Meanwhile ten thousand, thousand accidents,
Each as minute, and imperceptible,
As the fine floating threads of Midsummer,
Obliquely cross us; small, yet strong as fate.
Our progress is denied; the nerves of action
Are firmly fetter'd; as with idle toil
We strive to extricate ourselves, dark night steals on,
We fall, and haply never rise again,
Ne'er see the ruddy face of morn: or lost
In fogs and mists rove darkling, till arriv'd
At where we first set out, we strive again,
Again are baffled by the sturdy trifles,
And sink at last fatigued, and quite o'ercome,
Into the arms of death. Sorrowful thought!
But yet in strictness true.—Come life, come death,
He hath not lived in vain, who so hath lived
To satisfy himself.—Poor argument!
In reason good, in practice weak.—For me,
I am not satisfied, nor will be satisfied,
Missing the mark.—Tut—This is woman's play,
Meer words, meer words—deeds are the test of man.
And there I fail; a pufillanimous,
Tame, indolent, vile driveler.—But cease, cease;
Can I command occasion? Wrest the sway
Of mortal things from the strong rule of Heaven?
And to my will bend the reluctant step
Of coy contingency? O you high Powers!
Into your hands do I resign myself.
Might I be used the humble instrument
To free my country, Oh, how bless'd were I!
If Rome must sink, if I must live in vain,
And die as I have lived, I will not murmur;
I'm nothing; you are wise, and just, and good.—
Yet why not seek Valerius? Heaven, and earth!
It is too late; here come the rioters;
I can't escape them; yet a time may be—
Yet, hence despair; still thou and I are twain.
Enter
SEXTUS, TITUS, COLLATINUS, ARUNS.
May they all hang, or starve, or drown themselves!
And may each several kind of death be mine,
When I again presume to promise aught
Upon a woman's head.
We're trapp'd indeed,
And Collatine will bear away the bell.
I do not think so, man. What, though our wives
Love music? there is music at Collatia.
What, though they love dancing and jollity?
There are trim gallants at Collatia.
What, though they love feasting and revelry?
Are they not feasts and revels at Collatia?
But such a hubbub, such a monstrous din,
So wild a roar, I never heard before.
I could have sworn, the frantic Bacchanals
Were come from Thrace. The shrieks o'th' Sabine maids
When ravish'd, were not heard so far away
As this shrill mirth. I fear'd to pass the threshold,
And trembled for my head; yet it was well
That they were all together; for it saved
Our precious time. Yet do not triumph, Collatine;
Or rather triumph now, for now thou may'st,
Crest-fallen shalt thou be anon.
For me
To triumph, were absurd; more sober joy,
Believe me, shall be mine. As for my crest,
I trust, a single fibre of the plume
Shall not be soil'd to-night.
We'll try that soon.
Whom have we here? Hah, 'tis our run-away.
Come hither, fugitive, where hast thou been?
How daredst thou leave us? What art doing here?
Doing here! I was doing nought at all.
At yonder corner of the street I miss'd you,
And thought you turn'd this way.
My witty Brute,
Give thee a possibility of wrong,
And thou wilt ne'er go right.
I could not help it, 'twas no fault of mine;
I came this way, and deem'd that I was right,
Though baulk'd by fortune, I could not attain
The sought-for end. But will you turn again
Toward my house? Shall we not see my wife?
Thy wife! without a doubt we'll see thy wife:
But not at present; some weeks hence or months
Will serve the turn: and in the interim
Take heed thou givest her warning of our purpose,
That she may be at home.—Now to our horses.
Come, hurry, it grows late; I'm all impatience
To place this haughty Sir, on an equality
With those he seems to mock: a little hour
Will turn the laugh, when he may dear repent
This fancied mastership.
Proceed, and try,
Speak at your leisure.
So sanguine still! so full of hopes!
So sure
In stable knowledge.
Vain self-flattery!
I'll hear no more; haste, haste! Brutus, before,
And lead the way!—Th' alertness of our chief,
Methinks, should animate us.
Certainly.
It doth; I haste with all convenient speed.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Collatia.
LUCRETIA,
at work with her maids.
I thank thee for thy tale, Lavinia,
Though little heeded; it would raise my mirth
Sometimes; though now I could not but retreat,
To that which Clelia had before related.
And didst thou know the youth, my Clelia?
Full well I knew him; 'twas my sister's son.
Oft e'er he died, for he was long a dying,
I went to see him; oftimes he ran o'er
Each circumstance of his unhappy love,
And the cold scorn which prey'd upon his heart.
And when his cheeks were wan, and his fair eyes,
Which once the liveliest that e'er glanced the flame
Of ardent faithful passion, were grown dim,
And scarce to be perceiv'd; when his strength sail'd,
And in a low weak tone he call'd me to him,
Entreated me, if ever I esteem'd him,
To keep the secret from the cruel maid,
Nor offer his departed soul a violence,
By giving of her pain; then, with a feeble
And trembling motion, press'd my hand t' his bosom,
Till I was almost dead as well as he.
And what became of her? I think thou said'st,
She with remorse was seiz'd; and at the hour
Of midnight, starting from her bed, sought out
The grave where he was buried.
There she died.
I think, that with th' assistance of Camilla,
I can make out a dittie, which was framed
On that occasion; but 'tis melancholy,
And you have heard enough of woe already.
Oh! for the sake of heaven, keep to yourself
Your gloomy dirge; remember, that my mistress
Lies all alone; she will not wink an eye;
Or if she does, will dream of them, and wake
In sad affright.
Oh, fear not, my Lavinia:
Though much I like these tales of native woe,
I have no superstition, and no fears,
Which will disturb repose. How thou art moved,
I know not; but to me, a pleasing calm
Succeeds these narratives of grief o'erpast;
And though I sympathise, when they are told,
It is a joy I would not be without:
For always, in my mind, Lavinia,
The soft delight, which feeling pity brings,
Though but indulged a moment, far excels
An age of wanton gay festivity,
Which the vague soul enjoys not while it tastes.
Clelia, begin; Camilla, you assist her.
BALLAD.
1.
Daughter of fruitless woe arise!
And quit this yew-tree's noxious shade;
O'er Nature midnight brooding lies,
And poisonous vapours load the glade.
II.
Ah, gentle stranger, leave, I pray,
A wretch with woe forlorn, like me;
I wish to be alone; thy stay
Doth but augment my misery.
III.
Daughter of fruitless woe, arise!
The clouds of heaven begin to lour,
The cold north-east now bleakly flies,
And drives along the sleety shower.
IV.
Stranger, in vain thou seek'st to move,
This pillow shall support my head;
This grave, in which lies my true love,
Ah, when alas, shall I be dead!
V.
Daughter of fruitless woe, arise!
Dost thou not know how vain thy tears?
Canst thou recall him by thy sighs?
Will he return to all thy prayers?
VI.
Stranger, thou didst not know the youth;
Nor yet the love to me he bore;
Thou wert no witness to his truth,
Ne'er heard'st thou his persuasive lore.
VII.
Too well, I know, my fruitless woe,
Can ne'er recall his vital breath;
But I to his embrace can go,
And seek him in the house of death.
VIII.
Daughter of fruitless woe, arise!
Alas! to ears all deaf I speak;
Cold damps suffuse her dying eyes,
Life's quivering beam forsakes her cheek.
Thanks, Clelia; thanks, Camilla. (In this humour,
I'll pray unto the gods, and then to rest.)
[Aside.
How wears the night, my damsels? Are your tasks
Near ended?—Gracious Powers! who enters here!
My lord! most welcome.—
Enter
COLLATINUS, TITUS, SEXTUS, BRUTUS, ARUNS.
Welcome, these my friends,
Lucretia, our right royal master's sons;
Passing this way, I have prevail'd with them,
To honour our poor house.
Welcome, yourself!
And doubly welcome, that you bring such friends!
To whom I offer silent thankfulness.
My heart is full of joy.—Retire, my damsels,
And think on other work.
Rather, fair lady,
You should be angry, that unseasonably,
And with abrupt intrusion, we've thus broke
Upon your privacy.
No, my good lord;
Those t' whom my love, and my respect is due,
Can ne'er intrude upon me; had I known
This visit, you, perhaps, might have been treated
With better cheer, not a more kind reception.
This evening, little did I think my house
Would have possess'd such lodgers.
Rather, lady,
Such birds of passage; we must hence to-night.
To night! Doth not my lord, say no to that?
I would, Lucretia; but it cannot be.
If the house yields a small collation,
To set before your guests, I pray prepare it:
We must be at the camp, e'er morning dawn;
An hour or two will be the utmost limit
Allow'd us here.
With all the speed, I can,
I'll play the caterer; though I am tempted,
Would that delay your journey, to be tardy,
And prove a sluggish housewife.
[Exit.
This is, indeed, a wife! here the dispute
Must end. Henceforth, there's no comparison.
I could have sworn it was not in my nature,
To envy any married man his bargain;
Nor do I envy thee: but 'tis a wife
Of wives, I can't but own, a jewel pick'd
From out the common pebbles. To have found her
At work among her maids, at this late hour,
Plying the needle, is not strange at all,
When I have seen what I beheld just now,
(And yet I could not have believ'd e'en that)
But to be pleas'd at our rude interruption,
Not to squeeze out a quaint apology,
As, "I am quite asham'd; so unprepar'd;
"Who could have thought! Would I had known of it!"
And such-like tacit hints, to tell her guests
She wishes them away; this carriage causes
Some little wonder.—Envy! No—Yes—No.
I give thee joy, my friend; and yet her beauty,
Might in some men, raise envy; but I know not
What envy means.—Thou'rt happy, Collatine;
Thou must be happy, if thou know'st thy happiness.
What think'st thou, Brutus?
Happiness consists
In thought, in thinking; that's to say, that happiness
Is ours if we are happy—that's to say,
We're happy, if we think that happiness
Is ours, then we are happy.
That's all true;
Or, that's to say, in verity thy words
Are truly wise; the cream of rhetoric,
And marrow of morality, is thine.
I must express my satisfaction too;
And glad I am, that our dispute occasion'd
This journey hither; if once Collatine
Complain'd of my ironic praise, his conscience
Must tell him I'm sincere, when I affirm
I think him bless'd beyond comparison
In such a peerless dame.
Enough, enough.
The gods forbid I should affect indifference,
And say you flatter me; I am most happy.
But Sextus heeds us not; he seems quite lost.
Regard him not; these reveries you know
Are common to him. He will soon recover.
Had she staid here till now, I should have done
Nothing but gaze. Nymphs, goddesses,
Are fables; nothing can, in heaven or earth,
Be half so fair; Venus in flesh and blood!
Love's true divinity! If such the charms
Which meet the eye, Oh, what delicious beauties!
With what a frenzy of delight—But these
The husband must alone—to me the senses
Are bounded; yet my warm imagination,
Pregnant with rapture—
Brutus, go and wake
Yon absent dreamer.
What ho! Sextus, Sextus!
What ho! Sir Brute! Come, Sir, a Salian dance!
Well done, most brisk and active! Why a nimbler
And lighter heel, an attitude more graceful
I ne'er beheld: by Jove, I'll recommend thee
To th' priests, and thou shalt head the band; what say'st thou?
And spite of thy nick-name, we'll have it posted
In flaming characters upon thy back,
"This is a man," lest by thy motions cheated,
The people take thee for a bear.—What mean'st thou?
How darest thou laugh at me? Am I thy jest?
Say, Sir?
I know not what you mean, not I.
I did not laugh. Say, did I, Aruns, Titus?
You did, I needs must say it.
And at him.
At him! I never laugh'd at him in all my life.
Nay then, thou didst at us.
What dost thou see
In us ridiculous? Are our faces changed?
Look we like monkeys? Are our noses flatten'd?
And tails grown out?
Nay, now I see you laugh
At me; now are you not in jest, I pray?
Was you not, Sextus? Yes, you think, perhaps,
I can't see through it, when you laugh at me;
But I, perhaps, read men a little deeper
Than you imagine.
Why I never doubted
Of thy sagacity; I always found thee
Most wise, most apt, shrewd, quick, and capable;
Yet when thou pleasest to relax, thy wit
Leaves me in doubt, whether I should prefer
The mirth-engendering friend, or cool adviser.
That's spoken like himself now, that's like Aruns.
Brutus, I heard the strangest thing last week!—
Aye, aye! What was it? Tell me.
[Ar. Brut. Tit. Coll.
apart.
I must and will—What then? I do not care.
Marriage! A trick; nature ne'er meant it—marriage!
Why how dare any man assume a right
To keep from me that beauty Heaven created
T'inflame my soul when look'd on, and placed there
Passions to take th' alarm, and with wild wing
Rush maddening t'ward the object they desire?
I must possess her. But, her chastity—
Away, frosty idea!—Others chaste
Have seem'd, and but have seem'd. The snow would lie
For ages, unassail'd by the warm air.
But should she—Force! no, no. And yet why not?
Peace, undigested thoughts! Down, down, till ripen'd
By farther time ye bloom.
[Titus
and
Aruns
laughing.
Who, Sextus? Yes, I have seen such an one;
I saw him at the siege of Ardea.
I thought he was a soldier of indifferent,
Moderate valour; 'twas reported though,
A little fearful: but being son to th' king,
The common people dared but mutter it.
I thank you; what you think me meditating
I know not: but both now, and heretofore,
My mind was in the camp. How wine could heat us
To such a mad exploit, at such a time,
Is shameful to reflect on; let us mount
This instant, and return.
Now we are here,
We shall incroach but little on our time,
If we partake the slender fare together,
Which will by this await us. Pray, my lords,
This way.
Along; I'll follow strait.—Ye walls, disclose not
My dark conceptions; I'll ere long return.
Till when, my soul, by this fierce sting tormented,
Will rage
unsatisfied, and feel
no rest.
[Exit.
END OF THE THIRD ACT.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
The Camp.
ARUNS, TITUS.
A Knave! a base-born knave! But if he doth not
Severely pay for th' insult.—Such a villain!
I offer'd him the value of his horse;
He would not part with it, not he: he would not?
But force perforce he shall. A slave—a traitor—
I'll have the horse, were there a guard around it
Of fifty thousand men, all of them knights—
Aye, and his head to boot.
What, brother, hath the wind affronted you?
Talk you to air? And chide the passing gale
For blowing in your face?
He had th' assurance
To reason with me too: but if I do not
Marr all his reasoning for the future, may I—
What, Titus?
Even he.
You see me moved—
Would you have thought it? Such a paltry, base,
I'll-manner'd groom! A Roman knight d'ye call him?
A Roman hind—a vile unpolish'd hind—
An unlick'd cub—
Say, who is this, my brother?
Who is this? He, there—what d'ye call him? Fabius.
A knight! a villain: but may all the gods
Lay on me all their heaviest punishments,
If he within these two hours doth not treat
The hungry worms! Nay, and I'll mount his horse,
The horse he loves so well; the horse he would not
Part with to me; I'll mount that very horse,
And make him prance upon the very spot
Where his warm corpse lies buried, and ram in
His earthen bed full closely round about him.
Then see who'll reason, who'll pretend to prate;
Then see—
Why what is this? I hear of Fabius,
Of Fabius and a horse, and threats on threats.
Be calm, be cool.
I've not been in a passion;
No, not in the least: but if I don't make him
A fearful specimen of my revenge,
A lesson to be read with shivering horror
By all the knights i'th' army—If I do not,
Ne'er may my pallid cheek again be red;
Ne'er may my wrinkled brow again be smooth;
Ne'er may the flash of anger quit my eye;
May my whole visage ne'er regain its turn
Of native feature! If I'm not revenged,
May all the complicated ills of life
Assail me!
Oh, ye gods! how passion alters
The noblest of your works! And is this Aruns?
Is this the son of Tarquin? This the brother
Of Sextus and of Titus? Fie, fie, fie!
What, turn'd a woman! Had my wife thus raged
In impotence of words, denied a bauble,
I should not thus have wonder'd. Oh, for shame!
Had'st thou desir'd what thou could'st not possess,
I might forgive thee; could'st thou not revenge,
I might excuse this storming with thy tongue.
But when thou may'st possess what thou desirest,
And when revenge attends upon thy beck,
Ready to punish insult, why this clamour?
This idle ineffectual rhapsody
Of empty words?
Empty or not, I reck not.
I spake to please myself. Must I be curb'd
By every one? Not speak? Nay, Titus, stay,
You leave me not.
Then pr'ythee speak to th' purpose.
I'll speak of this same horse, no other theme,
And of the base-born varlet who bestrode it;
A currish miscreant; but that's no matter.
Should one of Phoebus' steeds tire in his wain,
This would supply its place. A whoreson slave!
I ask'd him if he would exchange with me,
And bade him cull my stud.—The head so form'd!
Answering in nicest symmetry each limb—
Such harmony of shape! Such just proportion!
I ne'er saw strength with beauty so combined.
An eye of fire! A neck clad in effulgence,
And glorious as the arched bow of heaven!—
He told me, 'twas the only thing he loved,
His sole delight, his pride; ask'd me, if I
Would willingly give up the thing I loved;
Suppose my mistress; begg'd I'd not desire him;
Was sorry that he must refuse me; would I
Give him the best Italia e'er produced,
Nay, give him three for one; in brief, he could not,
He would not part with it.—Such a fine creature!
It ne'er was got by mortal sire; the dam
Must have been by the northern wind impregn'd.
The grass bends not beneath his feet; he's swifter
In his career than is a morning sun-beam;
And graceful as the wing of Mercury,
Sliding to earth upon an azure cloud,
The herald of the gods. A vital spirit
Informs each fibre, and directs its motions.
Enough, enough.
No, it is not enough.
This horse is mine, it shall be mine at least;
I would not part with it for half a kingdom.
Poor, foolish Fabius! Little doth he think
My minister of vengeance dogs his heels.
When thou dismountest, Fabius, clap his neck,
Speak lovingly to him, as thou wert wont,
Take thy last leave, nor see the hand of death
Aim'd at thy unarm'd side.
Enter
CLAUDIUS.
Is the deed done?
Fabius is fled, my Lord.
Fled, say'st thou? Whither?
Suspecting, as I think, my Lord, some ill,
And conscious of his just deserts, he rode
Toward the postern gate; I follow'd him,
Resolv'd to execute what you commanded.
Far off upon the distant hills appear'd
A band of the Rutilian foragers.
He both his spurs stuck in his horse's sides,
Gave him the reign, and mingled with them strait.
They shouted, wheel'd away toward the right,
And soon escap'd my eye.
Thou wert too slow.
My purpose known, thou should'st have put on wings
As quick as thought: thou wert too slow, too slow.
My Lord, unless I had been more than human,
And could have trod with step invisible,
And swifter than the passing moments do,
I could not have done more, it was impossible,
Impossible! tut, there's a word: impossible!
There's no such thing, but in the vapid brain
Of fools and cowards. Why, thou sluggish varlet,
Dost thou not know it?
What, my gracious Lord?
If thou dost not, go hence about thy business,
And dream of it by th' way.
[
Exit
Claud.]
No matter, tho':
He that lets slip an opportunity,
Deserves to lose the sight of it for ever.
'Tis but an accident; it doth not signify.
Why thou art quite become the slave of humour:
Tetchy and froward as a squalling child
Of two months old; ever dissatisfied
Unless he feels the nipple in his mouth,
Or cries himself asleep.
Oh, Heavenly Wisdom!
I see thy shining progress mid the stars,
Brightening the galaxy! To thee the orbs
Pay adoration from their lucent spheres!
Thou crown'st the everlasting fount of day
With dazzling radiance! Thou lead'st on the year!
The seasons in their varied liveries!
And, more than all the rest, inspir'st the soul
Of thy warm votary Titus!—Let me feel,
Oh, sacred goddess! but the faintest touch
Of thy benignity, and I will look
With such a gravity, an air so solemn,
As doth thy bird from out the hollow oak,
Circled with clasping ivy!—Oh, what pity
That I should pray in vain, who pray so seldom!
What then remains? To hurl a curse or two
At that blind strumpet Fortune, who takes care
Always to break my shins with her damn'd wheel;
To laugh in spite of her, a peevish laugh;
To wish all men no happier than myself;
To wish that I were such a fool as Brutus,
(As they are happiest whose sense is smallest)
Since I can't be so wise, so sage as Titus.
And so, farewel! I'll e'en go to my tent,
And try if I can sleep out this long siege;
For waking slumber is the worst of sleep.
And so, farewel!
Farewel!
But stay, inform me,
If all thy gravity and wisdom knows,
Where Sextus leads his vagrant feet? Last night
I miss'd him. Privately, as I'm inform'd,
He left the camp; but for his destination
I could not learn it: know'st thou?
No, I know not.
I might have guess'd so; 'twere a thing as easy
To say when last Jove put on his disguise,
Slunk out at heaven's back gate, and what Alcmena
Received him to her arms. A plague on secret
Mysterious hidden letchery, I say!
Why can't a man be open in his dealings?
Give me the easy fair who will not blush,
Though the broad sun should stare her full i'th' face.
A plague on pains taking! Your fly intriguers
Are th' only whoremasters; all the rest are chaste,
And fornication is necessity.
Imagination must forsooth be tickled;
Your squeamish stomachs must be tantalized,
E'er they'll be hungry. Hence your amorous parlies,
Whispering from windows, squeezing of the hand,
Glances, the lewd interpreters of thought;
Hence all the monkey tricks, which e'en the woman
Who causes, laughs at—Foh! I'm sick to death—
Such worse than asses in the shape of men!
A pimping pleasure too, not worth the toil
Of stretching out an arm thus far. When Juno
Will be my paramour, I'll turn gallant,
Get me a pair of wings, and every night
Mount up to her etherial bed-chamber.
Till when, I leave intrigues to thee and Sextus.
And so, farewel! I'll to my contemplations.
[Exit.
I know thy contemplations well; beneath
That garb of chiding spleen, and discontent,
Ambition couches, though thou seem'st unsteady
As the vague moon; now, gay as Florio spring
Intent upon delight; now, clouded o'er,
And four as bleak December; rating i'th' morn,
What thou i'th' evening prized'st; yet the eagle
Looks not with eye more fix'd upon the sun,
Than thou on royalty. I've seen thee through.
And Sextus is not so enslaved to pleasure,
But that ambition claims the upper seat
In his aspiring mind. I've seen through both.
Three kings at once! no, that can never be.
One only bird arises from the ashes
Of the imperial phoenix; in the sky
There's but one glorious light. Let Tarquin die,
And these young scyons must not spoil the growth
Of th' elder towering oak; t' o'ertop their heads,
And keep them down, cannot perhaps be done;
They grow too quick. But still they may be blasted;
The canker-worm may prey on them in secret;
Or one good blow of a keen axe urged home,
In all their pride of foliage, lays them low.—
But peace! Sextus, I see, is near at hand.
Enter
SEXTUS.
Sextus, well met. What, you've, I'll warrant you,
From when the sun left his wave-quilted couch,
Full of anxiety and watchful care,
Been traversing the camp? How stand the soldiers
Affected to their duty? Dost thou think
Our ditch and palisades will guard us well?
And is the rampart strong in every quarter?
Or hast thou been a spy toward the city?
Keep they the guard o'th' wall with usual strictness?
Hast thou found out a weaker place unknown?
Or hath thy working brain yet wove the net,
Or limed the twig, or dug the fatal pit-fall,
For their destruction?
Every hour of time
Hath got its business allotted to it.
There is an hour for war and vigorous action;
There is an hour for counsel and advice;
There is an hour for wine, and noise, and madness;
There is an hour for pleasure, and the feats
Which wanton Venus ever joys to look on.
Last night, my Titus—
Was the hour of time
When Sextus—
Pr'ythee take the fact at once.
Lay with Lucretia—Why that moon-eyed stare?
Lay with Lucretia—Dost thou understand me?
Lay with Lucretia—Need I to repeat it?
'Tis what my tongue could dwell upon with rapture,
Through th' infinite descent of rolling ages.
Let my eyes sparkling with the new-caught joy;
Let my cheeks stain'd with a more genial hue;
Let all the dancing transports which play o'er
My face; let these two arms which held her close
In twined embrace; let these two lips which kiss'd her,
Suck'd in her charms, and now still taste th' impression;
Let every atom of this body tell thee
That I enjoy'd Lucretia.
What, the wife
Of Collatine! thy friend! thy kinsman!
The wife of Collatine, my friend, my kinsman;
Nearer related now indeed than ever.
But what, is Titus' conscience then grown squeamish?
Was it debauch'd last night, that 'tis so sickly,
So puling in the morning?
Not a whit;
But struck with some astonishment, however,
Lucretia! and the wife of Collatine!
By her consent too!
Yes.
By some sly trick then;
Some damn'd insidious circumvention,
Some dark thick plot, some artifice close-couch'd,
Of cunning stratagem; or else through fear
Of some worse ill than death. Say now, how was it?
For if there ever was among the sex,
Or purity, or innocence, 'twas there.
She could not be a hypocrite; her face,
Her look, her outward manners, spake a heart
Unknowing of deceit; a soul of honour,
Where frozen chastity had fix'd her feat,
And unpolluted nuptial sanctity.
I do suspect thee much; 'tis but a boast,
Or else an act of low, of mean revenge,
To blast that virtue, which thy utmost efforts
Can ne'er subdue.
Sextus is wont to boast
Of favours which he ne'er received, or take
A pleasure in thin unsubstantial mischief.
No; I acquit thee there.
E'en as thou wilt.
But I suspect shrewdly thou enviest me:
Which more to raise: know that this soul of honour,
This piece of unthaw'd snow, this pattern rare
Of nuptial purity, I found to be
A woman; found her all alone, at midnight;
Found her in bed, undress'd, found her reluctant,
Found her, indeed, chaste to outrageousness,
(Tho' that but added fuel to the flame)
Yet used no violence, and yet enjoy'd her.
Thou talk'st in riddles.
Hear then the plain truth.
Now two nights since, when first we saw Lucretia,
Her air, her voice, her look, her every motion,
Inkindled passion in me e'en to madness.
Thou dost remember how my soul was buried
In senselessness to every object round;
Though then, perhaps, thou didst not guess the cause.
I swore then to possess her. All that evening
She unadvisedly with new incentives
Stirr'd up my purpose; but quite unresolved
How to pursue that purpose, I last night
Again went thither, only one attendant
Accompanied me; business of importance
Feign'd for my quick return. Her husband's friend,
And Tarquin's son, she could not but receive
A nightly guest; yet in her eye, methought,
She bore no great good-will to Tarquin's son.
She, without doubt, had heard his character,
And hard 'twas to dissemble. I nought heeded
This air of coldness, but with sage discourse,
And temperate, entertain'd her; talk'd of modesty,
Of self-denying virtue, of strict honour,
And mutual holy faith 'twixt man and man;
Of wedlock's happy league, and the young brood
Of smiling innocents: then turn'd my talk
To battles, sieges, dreadful deeds of arms,
Adventures rare, by martial prowess won:
A subject, to the which all woman-kind,
Open a greedy ear; but not a word
Of love, nor yet a sally of loose thought
Escap'd me; thus I fell in with her humour,
And, unsuspecting, she retired to rest.
And whither thou? But I'll not interrupt thee.
Now was the depth of midnight; silence reign'd
Through all the house; not the least sound was there;
You might have heard a feather fall to the ground;
And sleep on every brow had fix'd his dead
And leaden hand, as Nature lent her aid
To my design. Kind Nature lent her aid,
Nor I refus'd the call: with cautious tread,
Suppose thou seest me entering the room,
Where lay that sleepy Venus; in one hand
My sword, a lamp in th' other; think thou seest me
Reading her naked charms; think (but thou canst not,
It is impossible, had'st thou not seen her)
What I then felt; my soul was all on fire,
My limbs all trembled; and my salient heart
Beat, as 'twould find a passage through my ribs.
Half between sleep and wake, Lucretia cries,
Art come, my lord? But, when she thoroughly waked,
What a wild look of horror and surprize!
She knew my purpose well; or, if she did not,
I kept her not in long suspence, nor wasted
The time in vain apology; my sword
Threatened her instant death, without compliance;
And, willingly, she cried, yes, willingly,
I'll die ten thousand deaths; Oh, my dear lord!
Where, where art thou; Oh, Sextus! I conjure thee
By every sacred, every tender name,
Make me not despicable to myself,
But slay me, and I'll thank thee.—All, that feeling
Passionate nature could suggest, she utter'd.
And didst thou still proceed? Didst thou not find
Thy bosom mov'd?
I did, but with desire.
For fear, had from her every other thought
Remov'd, her hair dishevel'd, hid but loosely
Her blaze of beauties, as she kneeling strove
To clasp my knees; I rais'd her and embraced;
She shriek'd aloud; fearing she might awake
The menial train, I had but one resource:
I rush'd forth to the door, where I had placed
My trusty slave, and dragging him by 's locks,
Swore I would slay them both upon her bed,
And publish to the world, I caught them there
I'th' act of shame: she found resistance vain;
The conflict 'twixt the dread of public infamy
And private crime, inwrapp'd her in despair;
I mark'd the strugglings of her soul, and seiz'd
The joy she would, but dared not to refuse.
Thus having spoke, forever hold thy tongue.
My breast is not cast in that tender mould,
Strongly to feel the goadings of compunction:
Nor have I dealt in those punctilious niceties,
Which bind the vulgar. But this act of thine,
Almost calls up the water in my eye,
And raises new emotions in my heart:
For her, I'm touch'd with pity; and on thee,
I look with something tending toward horror.
Oh, hold thy tongue! ne'er mention what thou'st done,
Lest that the very earth, on which thou tread'st,
Cry out against thee.
This rebuke from thee!
This to a stranger urge, to him who knows thee not.
And he may be deceived. I can't but laugh,
When I behold hypocrisy array'd
In th' unbecoming robe she stole from virtue,
Not hiding half her nakedness. Come, swear
By all the gods, and gulp down th' perjury,
That all thy life hath been inculpable,
That thou hast never broke the chains of wedlock,
Nor ever wilt; and then, to prove thy truth,
Lust after the next Roman dame thou seest,
And as thou'rt wont, pursue her to possession.
Whatever artifice I may have used;
Howe'er, with bribes corrupted, or with prayers
Assail'd the silly soul of yielding woman,
Ne'er did I use the argument of force.
Because thou never met'st with the temptation.
'Tis just, I well deserve his infidelity,
Nor have so lived as to be credited.
[Aside.
But setting this apart, dost thou behold
No future perils from this bold effect
Of unrestrain'd desire? Compell'd to suffer
What she detested, in the frantic rage,
Or deep despair of violated virtue,
May she not to her husband, or her father,
Disclose the cause?
What then, thou think'st her something super-human!
Did I not tell thee that she was a woman?
And on my life, she'll act like any woman:
With words like these, she'll lull her frantic rage,
And puff the depth of her despair away.
'Tis done, and can't be undone; 'tis not known;
So there's no harm; guilt is no guilt in secret:
Why should I make myself a wretch by blabbing?
Why tell my husband what he can't find out?
Sextus must love me wonderfully well,
Or he would ne'er have undergone this hazard;
No marvel though, when beauty, such as mine,
Enticed him; then she looks upon her mirrour,
Vanity shews her figure passing fair,
She smiles, and thus proceeds; beauteous as ever:
Why, what a peevish thing this virtue is!
And Sextus is a prince; and what is Collatine?
(Now comes she, mark me, to comparisons)
What's Collatine? A private man. Ambition
Now flits before her eyes, and she is blinded:
To hold the prince a captive in her chains!
Grandeur is hers, and pomp, and dignity,
And all the world holds dear and precious.
Oh, your strong-working passions ne'er last long!
She cool'd e'er I had mounted on my horse;
E'er I had rode ten paces, she saw things
In the same light which I have represented.
And now, no longer coy, reserv'd, and stubborn,
Sends off a messenger t' invite me back;
Oh, I shall riot after this, my Titus,
And shall possess her to satiety.
If thou art not found a deceitful prophet,
I'll give up all pretensions to the reading
Any event hereafter. It can't be.
I wish we may not all repent of this:
At least, I see perplexity and trouble,
Which will ensue inevitably.
Whence
Can danger come? Her father! and her husband!—
And will they dare to think of a revenge?
They may as well contrive to wrest the club
From th' hand of Hercules. But lest mischance
Should work a miracle; as for the husband,
I'll give, e'er long, a good account of him,
If he doth not meet death; placed in the way
Of every mortal sally, there are means
To bring him to his grave, and mother earth,
Is a most admirable vengeance-cooler.
As for the father, riches are a crime,
Which th' hand of Tarquin never fails to punish
Upon due accusation.—But, our father!
Hath he enquired for me? Or found me absent?
I do believe he hath not.
Well, we'll go
This instant to his tent; from thence to mine,
Where we will hold some farther intercourse,
Touching these loose imperfect hints I've offer'd.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
COLLATINE, BRUTUS.
No more—My business is not of that consequence,
Or private nature, but that thy society
Upon the road will be acceptable.
Nay, and when we arrive at Rome, we'll go
Together to the dwelling of Lucretius;
And I'll take care no servant shall again
Refuse thee enterance: what then would'st with him,
If thou wilt not reveal, keep to thyself,
I shall not trouble thee.
Whate'er it is,
You'll know in time, perhaps too, with no small
Degree of pleasure.
Yes, it may be so.
Enter a
MESSENGER.
Whence comest thou thus begrim'd with dust? and faint
And breathless with fatigue? How is Lucretia?
Is all well?—
I know no more, than that I bring this letter,
Which I was order'd to convey to you
With utmost speed; another messenger
Was sent at the same time, with the same orders,
To Rome, unto Lucretius.
Reading.
A deed too dreadful for my pen to write—
Extremity—without delay—bring with you
One only friend—Eternal gods! what means this!
A friend! the time is precious, I'll take him—
A moment can't be lost to cull and choose.
Wilt thou with me, Lucius? I know thou wilt.
Haste then, this moment bring our horses forth.
What dire portending mystery! My mind
Attempts in vain to fathom it—If sickness—
That cannot be; she would have told me so.—
Her father sent for too with equal speed!
Thought wastes but time; come, Lucius, hence with me!
We go not now to Rome, but to Collatia.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Collatia.
Oh, agony of agonies! down, heart—
Down, swelling bosom—O shame! shame! shame!
Cover'd with shame!—Oh, conscious innocence!
Where art thou fled? Long inmate in my breast,
Are we forever parted? Shall my soul
No more attend thy gentle whisperings,
Or when I rise in early morn, or when
I seek my bed of slumber, where by thee
Shadow'd, calm sleep and happy dreams were mine?
No more. No more. Must I ne'er see again
My husband's face with joy? Ne'er to my heart
Strain him with rapture? While he too with joy
Would listen to my tale of tenderness?
No, never, never. No, Lucretia,
Thou that wert once chaste, pure, and virtuous,
Art now polluted, vile, abominable.
How I detest myself! wretch that I am,
How loathsome to my soul! which fain would fly
From out its odious prison!—Why had I not
Braved the adulterer's sword? So had I fallen
A spotless victim. Yet, so too my name
Would have been render'd infamous, declared
A most abandon'd prostitute, no tongue
My vindicator, and the bleeding proof
Of my supposed sin weltering by my side.—
Bitter alternative! dreadful to think on!
Turn, turn, reflection! for across thy course
Lies madness, and each desperate deed of frenzy.
I cannot bear it.
Enter
LAVINIA.
Say, did you call, my mistress?
No—begone—
Yet stay: come hither: is thy lord arrived?
He is not, madam.
Would to heaven he were!
[Fixing her eyes on the ground.
What fatal accident hath caused this misery,
I know not: but so good, so kind a mistress
Never had servants: never till this instant
Heard I a word expressive of impatience
Come from her lips. Good heavens, what load of grief
Works in her breast, and labours for its birth!
Would that I could remove that look of woe
From that sweet face! I would myself endure
No small misfortune.—That still silent anguish
Pierces me through: I'd speak to her, but sobs
Won't suffer me.
What ails thee? Art not well?
Why dost thou weep?
Ah, can you ask me, madam!
What ails thee! do I not behold you miserable?
I am indeed, Lavinia.—But thy lord's
Arrival will heal all.—I pr'ythee go,
And quickly, to the end o'th' garden wall,
And when thou seest him at a distance, haste,
And bring me word.
I will. Oh, you good gods,
Give her relief! Pour comfort in her bosom!
[Exit.
That was a look of prayer, of prayer for me;
May it with blessings fall on her own head
A thousand fold! For me, the time is o'er:
Fruitless are all petitions; unless Jove
Could bid the past be as it had not been;
Could render void existence, root out memory.
Poor honest wretch! I could, methinks, drop tears
In sympathy with her: but for myself,
Not one have I to spare; my grief's too great:
'Tis all within; no tears, but tears of blood,
Can speak my feelings, or wash off my guilt.
What though with all th' abhorrence virtue knows,
When forced to look on sin, I saw the deed?
Yet, 'twas committed: 'twas permitted too.
Fatal necessity! Oh, wherefore was I
Form'd all alive to honour's nicest sense!
Why from my mother's breast did I imbibe
Its generous pride! Why foster it with care!
Brood over it delighted! hold it here,
More precious than a diamond of price!
If thus—
Enter
LAVINIA.
Madam, my lord is just arriv'd;
With him, your father, and Valerius,
And Lucius Junius.
'Tis well.—Tremble not, heart!
Keep fast thy fix'd intent, form'd from that moment.
This dagger's point is sharp; but sharper far
The tongue of calumny, its wounds more painful.
Sharper the loss of that self-satisfaction,
With which, in th' happier days of purity,
Thou could'st thyself contemplate and admire.
Can I endure to move the spectacle
Perhaps of insult, and exulting baseness,
Glorying o'er humbled virtue? Can I bear
To see the gaze of curiosity?
The nod, the whispers? Or to be at all
Mark'd out as something that's peculiar?
Or can I bear myself? and my own thoughts?
No: thou must die, Lucretia, thou must die.
Hark! hark! 'tis they—How shall I bear my husband's
And father's faces! Oh, support me, heaven!
This once support me, in this interview,
The thoughts of which almost take life away!
Oh, how shall I go through it!
Enter
COLLATINE, LUCRETIUS, VALERIUS, BRUTUS.
How is't, Lucretia?
How does my dearest wife?
My daughter, say,
Why hast thou sent for us?
Nay, come not near me—
Thou must not call me wife, thou, my dear lord,
Prized by me as my soul; nor thou, my father,
Whom, from my infancy unto this day,
I have beheld almost with adoration,
Thou must not call me daughter: thou, Valerius,
Must not call me thy friend; nor, Lucius, thou;
I am not now myself; cut off, deprived
Of every near relationship; each name
Of tender estimation; I am lost—
Lost to my friends, lost to myself.
What accident
Of more than human power can cancel thus
Thy interest in my breast? I must embrace thee;
Press thee close to my heart; call thee my wife,
My best beloved faithful wife! Assure thee
That all thy grief is mine.—Oh, calm this extasy!
Thou shak'st all o'er as in an ague fit,
And deadly pale, now throws upon thy cheek,
A hue like to the grave, now suddenly
Glowing with hot vermilion.
Oh, Lucretia!
Believe me, when I tell thee, not thy mother
Was dearer to me, when as chaste and pure
As Dian's self, blooming in innocence,
I led the virgin to her bridal bed,
Than thou, her pledge and lively pourtraiture.
No, nothing can withdraw my love from thee,
While like that pattern of her sex thou livest,
And so thy life hath been; in thee, well-pleased,
I have beheld her form revived, her virtues,
And female-gracing ornaments of soul.
There was a time, when praises from that mouth
Would have thrill'd thro' my secret mind with pleasure,
Tuned to harmonious self-complacency,
Discover'd in each corresponding action,
Wing'd with alacrity and joy. But now
'Tis far, far otherwise. Thou good old man!
These words have pierced me to the quick—My pain
Was keen enough before, why would'st thou make it
Doubly excruciating? Why bring my guilt
In stronger colours to my view?
Thy guilt!
Not heaven itself is freer from all taint
Of guilt, or the least stain of blame, than thou.
Is reason thine?
Reason is mine, indeed—
Though I could envy those who are distracted.
The mad is happier on his bed of straw,
Than the poor wretch bereaved of innocence,
Who yet esteems that innocence though lost,
And who with fixed eye gazing on her,
Is hurried into evil.
Explain thyself—
How dreadful is thy prelude! keep not thus
In torturous suspence thy father, husband,
And friends.
Oh, would one word could tell it all!
Can you not guess the whole, when I name Sextus,
The youngest son of Tarquin?
Curse on the name!
I fear—I fear—Luckless, undone Lucretia!
Say what of him?
Speak, daughter, speak.
From him, what ill could flow to thee? Thou never
Saw'st him but once, and that, the other night,
Brought here by me; say, what is this, Lucretia?
Would I had seen him, but that other night!
Or would that other night that I had died
A sudden death! But a sad fatal night
Hath pass'd between. Oh, tongue, perform thine office!
And tell my husband, that these eyes beheld him
That second night: tell him—Oh, Collatine!
Oh, hide me! hide me from myself!—How vain!
No, let me stand, and dare your piercing eyes
With bold assurance; wherefore are they fix'd,
All fix'd in silence on the ground? On me
Direct them full; Lo! here I stand, the mark
Of shame, of ignominy.
Daughter, patience.
If without thy consenting heart this deed—
No, 'twas by my consent. He would have slain
His slave and me; laid both on the same bed,
Then publish'd to the world, that I with him
Was a vile, base adulteress.
Oh, woe is me! Off, off, ye hoary hairs!
Oh, daughter ruin'd! Ruin'd, yet in virtue!
Burst, heart! Oh, how shall I find utterance!
Damn'd be the wretch! Doubly and trebly damn'd!
When forth he walks, may the red flaming sun
Strike him with livid plagues! May he be shunn'd
By all mankind! be odious to himself!
Breed vipers in his conscience! gnawing vipers!
Wish hourly for his death, yet be in tortures
A thousand years expiring!—If this fate
Attends on virtue, let us to the stews
For wives, bring up our daughters prostitues;
No more let holy wedlock be esteem'd,
But rank commixture, like the general herd
Of beasts, inform the dwellings of mankind!
Oh, noble warmth, from forth a generous mind!
With such a colleague might I shake the Tarquins
From off their throne. Now is the time arrived—
But stay—nor yet let me unfold myself.
When came he hither? Say, Lucretia.
Last evening, in the dark. Affairs of consequence
Brought him, he told me, to Collatia;
My soul, above suspicion, thought no ill.
I entertain'd him as became myself
And him. At midnight to my chamber stole
The ruffian—Witness, all ye powers above!
I heeded not the sword which arm'd his hand;
I pray'd for death with greater earnestness
Than the departing miser prays for life.
He told me of his love, his odious love,
Intreated, promised, intermingled threats,
Assail'd on every side my woman's soul.
At length dragg'd in his slave, and would have slain us
Together on the bed.
Oh, fool! fool! fool!
Vain-glorious boaster! that could'st not conceal
Thy treasure, but rather than not be known
To be possess'd of wealth, must take the thief,
The first notorious thief thou met'st, and shew him
The glittering store; unhooded let him trace
Each winding avenue, and give to him
A guiding clue, by which whene'er he pleased
He might return, and bear it all away!
Oh, my Lucretia, all the fault is mine;
To me may guilt with justice be imputed;
Thou art as free, as the young innocent
Hid in its mother's womb.
Yes, Collatine,
Believe me when I tell thee, not the least wish
That e're was form'd in deepest secrecy,
Hath my soul breathed toward another man.
Yet, though my mind is free, my body's guilty;
The load from thence recoils upon my mind,
Which shrinks beneath, as shunning intercourse
With its polluted yoke-mate. Death must break
These links of union, e're she can be happy.
What say'st thou? Death! Oh, daughter, hold, I charge thee!
The thought is horrible, it harrows up
My soul, committing there the wildest waste.
I charge thee, if thou hast the least regard
For this old hoary head, which many a time,
When thou, unconscious young one, slept'st full sound,
Hung o'er thee, and survey'd thy infant face
With tenderness, fondest love, unsay that word;
Let me conjure thee, by thy mother's memory,
By all her soft anxieties for thee;
Her sleepless nights, and busy days, attendant
Upon thy welfare, from thy breast unharbour
That rash, intruding thought!
Can any word
Fall from that tongue unheeded by thy daughter?—
But death's the only test, the only evidence
I now can give, of my integrity
And undefiled intentions.
No one can
Suspect thee, my Lucretia; hesitation
Will not against thee dare to elevate
Her stuttering tongue. No: many happy days
Shall yet be ours, many sweet social years,
Blessing and bless'd—and our delighted children—
Alas! what sudden thought, what new emotion,
Scatters a wilder terror o'er thy face,
Dyed with a deeper pale!
Didst thou say children!—
Oh, 'tis a thought which darted cross my brain,
Like to the blasting lightning—Children, saidst thou!
Who knows—how if—the ravisher!—That thought
Would of itself determine. As to him,
Be't yours to judge what chastisement is due.
For me, when I am dead, the babbling world
Perhaps will do me justice; in your minds
At least, my memory shall survive unsullied.
Though I absolve myself from wilful crime,
I can't from punishment; nor shall a woman
Hereafter, by the example of Lucretia,
Outlive her loss of honour.
[Stabs herself.
Oh, hold thy hand—What dost thou?—'Tis too late—
Who could have thought so suddenly? Rash action!
Too surely done.—That groan; life issued with it.
Oh, could my arms bring back thy fleeted breath,
Thus ever would I hold thee; even thus
In one indissoluble union,
Ne'er to be sever'd would we live. Lucretia,
That blow hath kill'd us both. Oh, wife! wife! wife!
Horror of horros! Wherefore did I wed?
Why get a daughter? Why with pride elated,
Behold—Oh, ruin'd virtue! Damned monster!
Had he e'er lov'd a child with my affection—
No breath—quite still and silent—Come, Despair,
And welcome, to my breast!—Fix'd are her eyes;
Ne'er shall I drink their genial beams again;
Ne'er hear that voice—Now, now could I blaspheme.
Oh, gods!—Patience, patience—here I stand
Mute and resign'd to your eternal wills.
But is it thus the good meet their reward?
Art
thou
my daughter—Oh! oh! oh!
No tongue can blame this grief. Thou gentlest! best!
Bedeck'd with every grace, each ornament,
Which dignifies, exalts—
Now by this blood I swear, immaculate
Before the Tarquin rape, (and you, Oh, gods!
Bear witness to my oath!) that I'll pursue,
With fire and sword, and every other means
Which righteous indignation shall supply,
Tarquin the proud, his impious wife, his sons,
And all th' accursed race, nor suffer them,
Or any other, to be kings in Rome!
If that I break one tittle of this vow,
May death be mine! but not like thine, Lucretia,
Triumphant, glorious; but detested, base,
And ignominious as the meanest slave's,
The most contemptuous, vilest malefactor's!
What do I see? What hear? Surely my senses
Are bassled by some vain illusion—
And my eyes see not, nor my ears draw in,
What I suppose they see and hear.
[
While
Brutus
is speaking,
Lucretius
and
Collatinus
are divided, sometimes looking with astonishment on
Brutus,
sometimes with grief on
Lucretia;
when he ceases, the latter gets the mastery, and they are wholly taken up with her.
Oh, wife!
Dear, dearest half of me! Gone, gone for ever.
Child of my soul! Supporter of my being!
But soon my heart will burst, and I shall be
Lock'd in the arms of death, as thou art now.
Staff of my age! Lost, lost, for ever lost.
What, are ye men? There lies your bleeding child;
There lies your tender wife; will tears again
Her lifeless corse reanimate? Will tears
Revenge her timeless death? I now, methinks,
Behold the ruffian glorying in the deed,
Telling the tale of shame to his lewd brothers,
And riotous associates, who agape
Listen with greedy ear, and grin applause
To the rank act of lust; while thus, says he,
I said, thus did, and thus, and thus the wife
Of Collatinus, and Lucretius' daughter.
You choose to have your names garnish the tale
Of foul obscenity; without a doubt
You like it well, and to be bandied round
Mid bawdy revellers. Think you to live
Thus branded with ignominy? Go, shew
Your blood-shot eyes and furrow'd cheeks to Tarquin,
And beg him on your knees, for that his son
Hath done this damned deed, to spare your lives.
Tell him, you are meek men, you bear no malice,
Your hearts are form'd for injuries, your weapons
Are short-drawn sighs, and briny flowing tears:
He will believe you, he is credulous;
So are his sons; an inoffensive race,
And merciful; witness that bleeding wound!
Witness this reeking steel! Is this a time
For tears; for vain laments? Now rouse up all
That is of manhood in us! Swear with me,
Swear all upon this dagger, to revenge
This execrable deed, unparallel'd;
This deed, at which the conscious night which saw it,
Turn'd pale with horror; at which nature shudders.
Oh, Jove Supreme! And thou, paternal Mars!
And unpolluted Vesta! hear again
My oath repeated! To the death I swear,
I will pursue the two prime regal monsters,
And all their progeny! Should they take wings,
They shall not 'scape my vengeance! Should they hide
In deepest caverns, there I'll penetrate,
And drag them forth! nor rest, till they are swept
From off the earth, which groans beneath their wickedness!
This from the bottom of my soul I swear.
Deeds soon shall follow words. Here, take it; swear,
Lucretius.
Wonder and astonishment
Seize on—
Of that hereafter speak. Now swear.
I swear.
Swear, Collatine.
I swear.
Valerius,
Swear.
I swear.
And now, my friends, the first I e'er could call so,
Let me embrace you round! Now, after long,
Long penance done, I am again myself.
I see you hardly yet believe your eyes;
Wondering, but scarce convicted; in suspence,
Though strong persuasion tell you all is real.
Think, my good friends, that hitherto you saw
My shadow only, and my mock resemblance,
The mimic of myself, and ape ridiculous;
Never till now appear'd I as I am.
Heretofore in my place, to th' eyes of men,
Hath an impostor, a poor stupid wretch,
Insensible to insult, void of shame,
Contemn'd by all, though in his own opinion
Of great importance, (which but served to make
His folly more conspicuous;) to the eyes
Of men, I say, this brutish character
Hath in my place appear'd; now is he vanish'd:
And I roused up from that lethargic slumber,
In which I lay for twenty years or more,
Now take again my rank i'th' file of men,
Call reason mine, and boast me in the name
Of long-lost late-assumed humanity.
My soul feels double strength from this inertness;
I burn for action, for the glorious day,
When freedom shall be ours; when I may say
To the chaste manes of Lucretia,
Now rest at peace, ye are at full revenged.
When I shall say, Rejoice, imperial Rome,
For tyranny is extinct, and oppression
No more shall rule you with an iron rod.—
Bear forth the body to the market-place;
Then shut the gates, that none may from Collatia
Bear any news to the camp; go you before,
And tell the melancholy tale; myself
Will follow after, and discourse the people.
Thence unto Rome.—And Oh, you powers on high,
Propitious prove, and let your aid be nigh!
Still prompt the generous thought; keep firm, my soul,
That I may safely reach the purposed goal;
That I may pull Ambition to the ground,
And Liberty may pour her gifts around.
END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
A Street in
Rome.
Enter two Citizens, one of
Collatia,
the other of
Rome.
I Told you how this melancholy sight,
The history of the deed shewn in its true
And native colours, by th' afflicted husband
And father, with the artless eloquence
Of real grief; how the discovery
Of Brutus, and his speech, affected us.
Each braver youth stood quickly by their side
Array'd in arms, burning with indignation
Pent in their breasts. We left Collatia
And enter'd Rome; a sight so new and strange,
With the arm'd multitude, first struck th' inhabitants
With fear and terror: but when they beheld
The order of our march, peaceful and solemn,
They soon put off their fears, and throng'd to gaze
Undress'd, unornamented, on her bier
Lay, scarce yet cold, Lucretia's chaste remains,
Beauteous in death: you might have ta'en her so,
And placed her in a temple, 'twould be sworn
'Twas Venus' image cut in alabaster.
Or for her hair confusedly scatter'd over
Her comely face and neck, Dian, reclined
After her toil upon a mount, exposed
To the rude winds; while in her breast the wound
She gave herself, would cause you to admire
What sacrilegious hand should dare to stab,
And give a deity to death.
Where now
Is this procession? And how far behind you?
They must by this have well-nigh reach'd the forum;
Where Brutus, who is tribune of the guards,
(A place of trust, which Tarquin only gave him,
As he appear'd an object of contempt)
Hath call'd together all the centuries.
He and Valerius are mean time to meet
The snators, who are by this convened,
(The few whom Tarquin's sword hath left alive)
To lay before them his intent, his plans,
And to be guided by their wise advice;
While in the forum, with Lucretia's corse
Laid forth to view, the father and the husband
Relate the manner of her death; when this
Is finish'd, Brutus shall harangue the people.
Great matters, as I think, may rise from this,
The greatest that can rise; the most desired
And least expected ever to have happened,
If you at Rome equal in generous sentiments
Us at Collatia.
What they are, I guess;
And would myself with joy hazard my life,
Was there a probability shewn to me
Of gaining what we now so long have lost.
But rash adventurers seldom meet with profit,
And a dead sleep of five and twenty years,
Is what men can't be easily awaked from.
But curiosity, if nothing else,
Will lead me to the forum.
I'll attend you.
I came this nearer way to avoid the crowd,
And glad I am I found you.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Forum at
Rome.
Lucretius
and
Collatinus
standing by the Body of
Lucretia
The
Roman
People round them. The Rostrum behind.
Thus, thus, my friends, fast as our breaking hearts
Permitted utterance, have we unfolded
This narrative of sad distress; for us
What now remains, robb'd as we are, of all
Which gave a joy to life, but to pursue
The example she hath set us, to invoke
The timeless destinies, and end our beings
With our own wretched hands?—Oh, vile old-age!
Which for her sake alone I wish'd to see!
Oh, luckless youth, whose sorrow equals mine!
For thou, alas, hast lost an equal blessing!
Merciless villain! Dearest, dearest daughter!
Yet let us mix our sorrows, let us drop
Our tears together on her lifeless clay;
Nor will your tender hearts, my countrymen,
Forbear to sympathize with us, and join
Your sigh of grief to ours.
Oh, piteous deed!
Oh, lamentable sight!
Ill-fated husband!
Oh, lamentable sight!
Ill-fated husband!
Most wretched father!
Let us all attend,
And pay due honour to Lucretia's corse.
Let all our matrons mourn, and let our virgins
Strew roses on her bier.
Come, then away,
And let us all prepare the funeral pile.
For this compassion—
Silence all! attend!
For this your tenderness, my gentle friends,
I thank you from my soul. But know you not,
The tribune of the guards hath call'd you hither?
Hear Lucius Junius first! you know not what
He hath to impart to you; private affairs
Must yield to public; until he hath finish'd,
I will not suffer you bestow a thought
On me, and mine; unusual is this call:
Your meetings long neglected. Nay, I'll tell you,
(For why from you should I hide any thing?)
It is for me and mine that he appears;
For me, for him, for every Roman here.
But, lo, he comes! Make way, my countrymen;
And, I beseech you, list to what he utters,
With deepest silence.
Room, there! room! make away!
Let him ascend the rostrum.
Surely this
Is errant madness; hear a fool harangue!
Be patient; fool or not, is he not tribune?
And don't the laws permit him to harangue?
Besides, Lucretius hath desired our silence.
Hist! he begins; methinks his looks are alter'd.
Romans and friends! you see before you now
No blundering ideot, bearing to your ears
The mandates of a tyrant, and disgracing
This rostrum with the servile repetition.
By many who are present, this assertion
May not be credited, so warily
I've play'd th' imposture, which necessity
Compell'd me to assume. For when your king,
King do I call him? when the monster Tarquin
Slew, as you most of you may well remember,
And those who do not, may have heard reported,
My father Marcus, and my elder brother,
Envying their virtues, and with covetous
And greedy eye, desiring to possess
Their tempting wealth, what treatment at that time
Could I have hoped for? Where could I have found
Protection, had I not put on the mask
Of unsuspected, unrevenging folly?
The mask which having to this day preserved me,
This day of my discovery, which I long
Have wish'd, I now forever throw aside.
Most wonderful!
Who ever heard the like
I'm lost in admiration.
'Twas well thought on,
He had no other way to save himself;
I should myself have done the very same.
How we were all deceived!
Aye, and the king,
And his three sons, who used to laugh at him.
Well, I saw always something in his face,
That look'd, I thought, like as if who should say,
I am not what you take me for.
Peace, peace;
He can't proceed; silence; he speaks again.
Would you know why I summon'd you together?
Ask you what brings me here? Behold this dagger
Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse!
See these unhappy men, whose tale of woe,
Of horrid woe, you from their mouths have heard,
And mingled social tears! Oh, chastity,
Is this thy fate! Oh, Rome, how wilt thou mourn
Thy thinn'd inhabitants, if goodness, virtue,
Treated as crimes, must meet the stroke of death!
If youth and beauty must be fingled out;
First prey'd on by rapacious lust, then murder'd!
Oh! I could mourn thy fate, Lucretia!
Could, like thy father and thy husband mourn;
Could in laments vie with each Roman soul
Who now beholds thee; and lament I will:
I can't refrain; my heart is wrung with grief,
Unutterable, inconceivable.
Alas, Lucretia!
Poor unhappy matron!
Why wert thou good, and beautiful, and young?
Her father and her husband are half dead.
Brutus, methinks, is moved as much they.
Brutus! Why, Brutus? Didst not hear him say
He was no more an ideot?
True, I heard it;
But use is not so easily o'ercome.
Silence! attend: see! he proceeds again.
Did I, my countrymen, say, I could mourn
Lucretia's death?—What sorrow must I feel,
When I beheld before my eyes, as now,
Methinks, I do, each Roman matron dead!
When I behold each Roman maid abus'd!
(For who shall circumscribe the range of lust?
What numbers shall fill up his ravenous gorge?
And bid his raging appetite be still?)
When I behold each Roman citizen,
Who hath a much-lov'd wife, a darling daughter,
Doom'd, like these two, to death, because with grief
Surcharg'd, they do not sit in silence down,
But dare proclaim their feelings?—Public murder,
For such a crime shall snatch them from the world,
Or they shall fall by the midnight assassin;
Nor must their friends say how they met their death,
But lay the blame upon their own despair.
They shall not die.
We will protect them both.
We will defend them from the tyrant's wrath.
Defend them, say you? Miserable men!
You know not what you say. Protect them both!
Can you protect yourselves? You have committed
Treason against the tyrant, and his brood
Of monster sons; you've dared to look with pity,
You've dropp'd a tear on murder'd innocence:
You've seen Lucretia, and have wept her fate:
You're partners with her father and her husband,
In guilty sorrow. You have listen'd too
To me, a wretch, who twenty lingering years,
Have for your sakes imposed upon the tyrant,
And borne the grossest insults. You have done
All this: and do you not expect to feel
The weight of punishment which is your due?
Are you not Tarquin's slaves? (for so he calls you)
And don't you dread the whip? Doth he not name you
The herd? The beast with many heads? And will not
The fury Massacre, let loose among you,
Revel knee-deep in blood?
Instruct us, Brutus,
What we shall do.
We'll follow thee in all things.
Thou shalt direct us.
Give us thy commands,
And we'll obey.
Instruct us, Brutus.
Must you be taught then what to do? Look there,
Once more look that way. She one night alone,
Outrage and violence sustain'd: not all
The entreaties of her friends, her weeping father
Begging, as he'd extort a gift from heaven,
Not all her husband's tender supplication,
Could shake her purpose: with a fearful hand,
But an undaunted soul: a woman's feelings,
But more than manly thought, deep in her breast
She plung'd this sharp-edged steel, which set her free.
Yes, thou art free, Lucretia! thou art gone,
Noblest of women, where no Tarquins dwell!
Lust gloats not on the dead, nor cruelty
And bestial fierceness riot in the grave.
Oh, most illustrious of thy sex, inspire
Our spirit-wanting minds with but a portion,
However small, of thy bright excellence!
Yet even that, I fear, would be in vain.
We are inured too much to slavery,
To dare resist; we are quite reconciled.
Determined still to drudge beneath the yoke:
To shrink each hour at sight of some new murder,
Some deed of baseness, treachery, and horror,
Yet with our lips cry, Hail, all-gracious Tarquin.
To work in sewers all day, shut up mid damps,
Denied the sight of heaven's blessed sun,
Yet in the eve, when we half-choak'd, revisit
The upper air, to praise benignant Tarquin.
To see his sons rush into every house,
To see our wives ravish'd before our eyes;
To see each ripening tender maid deflower'd;
To see them kill themselves; to see their pale,
And ashy corses, in the public forum,
Ranged all arow—Yet then we are determined
To bless kind Tarquin, mercy-loving Tarquin,
And beg him to beget some dozen more
Of sturdy sons, with such like acts of kindness,
To bless his humble, faithful citizens.
If this were not your fix'd determination,
Say, would you seek instructions? Would you ask
What you should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls,
Which saw his poison'd brother, saw the incest
Committed there, and they will cry, Revenge!
Ask ye yon conscious street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry, Revenge!
Ask yonder senate house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lies his murder'd wife,
And the poor queen, who lov'd him as her son,
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, th' all-viewing heavens,
The gods themselves, shall justify the cry,
And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge!
Revenge! Revenge! Revenge!
And we will be reveng'd, my countrymen!
Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus (a name
Which will when you're reveng'd, be dearer to him,
Than all the splendent titles earth can boast.)
Nor I alone; see where Valerius brings
The noblest of the city! See where stand
Lucretius! Collatine! Nor age nor grief
Depress their spirits, so as not to seek
Glorious revenge.—You are this moment free.
I see the tyrant fled; his soul dies in him;
The voice of liberty hath reach'd the camp.
I see the gladful soldiers hasting home,
Big to enjoy that freedom you possess;
Each one clasps close his friend, weeps on his neck,
Unable to express the bursting pleasure
Stretching his heart. But, when you name revenge,
His eyes flash living fire, and he resolves,
With you, to hunt the monsters through the world.
For tyranny, once having found a foe,
Meets not with an upholder. Once again
Let me pronounce you free. Again 'tis yours
To bring your votes: and the first case before you,
Is, what becomes of Tarquin?
We banish him the city, we banish him the city.
And now, what course will you yourselves pursue?
Arms, Brutus! arms! We'll march against the tyrant,
Lead us against him.
If you'll by my advice be over-sway'd—
Give it us, give it, we will follow it.
Myself, with some of the Patrician youth
Well-mounted, will away unto the camp.
Do you each man, furnish'd with arms, prepared
For action, or advice, immediately
Haste to the Campus Martius, there Valerius
Shall, with the senate, to your ears impart,
And to be ratified by your consent,
That plan of government by me delineated,
When in my fatuous state each thought was busied
For you, and Rome.—Guard well the city gates;
Pay the last duties to Lucretia's corse:
And soon expect to see my safe return,
And with me, all your friends. Th' immortal gods
Are your defence, fear nothing, but be bold.
Oh, noble Brutus!
Giver of liberty!
Father of Rome!
Deliverer of his country!
Our guardian god!
A temple shall be his
Next that of Romulus.
Oh, my dear countrymen! should I pretend
T' express the joy I feel for you, the gratitude
You raise within me, for this high applause
Shewn to my poor deserts, the time we now
Possess, were much too scant, e'en years would fail.
I'm wholly yours, and long as I shall breathe
The breath of life, will only live for you.
Now I descend: and will accompany you
Without the forum; there we'll separate;
You for your arms; I, to the camp at Ardea.
The gods who long have in the book of Fate
Foreseen this time; the gods who hate injustice,
Who punish perfidy, and cruel deeds,
Go with us both: their influence I obey,
The humble instrument they have appointed
To rescue you from bondage, to restore
Your ancient rites, to give you days of peace,
And liberty, the attribute of man.
But grant me one request: tho' real joy,
I know, ill brooks restraint, keep back this tumult
Of your applause; your love I'd fain acquire,
Heaven is my witness, I would die t' acquire it!
But clamour ever shews ill-guided counsels,
The voice of rashness, th' argument of numbers,
Of reason destitute. Not so the plan
Which we pursue, the surest grounds are ours,
Maturely founded, and late brought to light.
Let us accomplish then the end proposed,
With prudent zeal, with decent vigour, firm
Intrepid hope, and silent resolution.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The Camp
: Tarquin's
Tent.
TARQUIN, MESSENGER, GUARDS.
Take this Collatian scare-crow, guard him safe.
If that the news thou bring'st shall be found false,
Prepare thee for the tortures of the cross.
My Lord, it is too true.
Away with him.
[Exeunt Messenger and guards.
Brutus! it cannot be. The gods themselves
Could not bestow on him the use of reason.
Brutus incite the people to sedition!
As soon shall the Tarpeian rock turn vo
al;
As soon the wooden Jove i'th' capitol
Hurl the Vulcanian bolt. This knave hath heard
Some vague report when drunk, or in his sleep
Hath dream'd of this account, an unconnected,
Improbable, impossible adventure.
Enter an Attendant.
My Lord, another hasty messenger
Begs your immediate hearing.
Bring him before us.
Pardon, most gracious Tarquin, e'er I speak.
Speak boldly, man, for thou hast nought to fear.
I come, dread sovereign, from Rome, where Brutus
Hath urged the people to rebellion.
How, and which way?
My Lord, this morn a herald,
I'th' name o'th' captain of the guards, convok'd
The general people to the public forum.
Curious to know the cause, I too went thither.
Soon was brought forth the body of Lucretia,
Attended by Lucretius and her husband,
And a large body of Collatian youth
In arms: by turns they spake unto the people;
Oft interrupted were their words, with sighs
And tears—
Proceed, be brief.
They said, Lucretia
By Sextus ravish'd, had foredone herself.
The people moved with pity, heard the tale,
And every eye was wet.
Thy tediousness
Is insupportable: haste to the end.
Then Brutus came, and mounting in the rostrum,
First having shewn that his stupidity
Was only forged, proceeded—
'Tis enough.
No more. Without! Prepare with utmost speed
A band of chosen horse! Where are my sons?
Why stand you thus? Where are my sons, I say?
What follow'd after he had spoke?
The people
All with one voice, when he proposed the question,
Of what becomes of Tarquin? cried, We banish him.
How!—Dared they?—Hah! 'tis well. What afterwards;
He then directed them first to take arms;
And, while he hasted hither to the camp,
To meet Valerius and the senators
I'th' Campus Martius, who would lay before them
A scheme of government. This having heard,
I hurried straight away.
Thy loyalty
Shall meet with its reward; for them—Who waits?
Where are my sons? Quick bid those horsemen mount
And wait for my commands. Deep hypocrite
Beyond example!—Oh, I see through all.
But short shall be his reign; mysterious, dark,
Unfathomable villain! But his life,
His forfeit life—and the quick, easy-wrought,
Inconstant crowd, them I'll reduce much lower
Than beasts of burthen; they have lived too fat;
Kick they their master thus?—Why did I leave
One senator alive? I had done well
T' have extirpated all, both root and branch.
Had done
is pass'd; the present hour is mine,
And that shall be well used. On danger's verge
To act unmoved, recoil into himself,
See every train of possible design,
And judge the best, is the great character
Of the superior soul. This is the time
Of trial, Tarquin; this the grand event,
To stamp thee fortune-proof. This enemy,
The tenor of his life, his perseverance,
Marks the most dangerous, thence the most worthy,
Thou ever hadst to cope withal. But he,
If he hath gain'd not every mortal engine
To aid his purpose, draws upon his head
Sure ruin.—To leave Rome, and seek the camp!
He falls in his own snare.
Enter
ARUNS
and
TITUS.
My sons, you come
In wish'd-for time; you know these accidents?
We heard them with amazement.
Where is Sextus,
The ravisher of matrons; who inspires
Idiots with sense, and raises insurrections
Against his father?
We in vain enquired;
He was not in his tent.
Well may he fear
To meet my presence; by th' immortal gods,
This hand should slay him for a fool, a dolt!
A common thief would, ere he robb'd a house,
First kill the mastiff at the gate, who else
Might worry him returning. As this tale
By busy rumour to the soldiers' ears
May get access, and if it doth, his presence
May be with fatal consequence attended,
Bid him still hide himself, or to withdraw
Entirely from the camp. Myself will hence,
And with these light-arm'd horsemen, intercept
This Brutus on the road, which being done,
I doubt not but to get speedy admittance
Into the city, where th' unruly mob,
Distract with fear, and multitude of counsels,
Will of themselves be ready for submission.
Should he escape my hands, in every avenue
Place trusty guards, and give strict orders to them,
To slay him ere he reach the camp.
We shall not
Be wanting on our part.
Alas, my sons!
What ails my father?
I am well again.
A sudden damp, and creeping horror, seiz'd me.
'Tis over now. I thought my throne fix'd firm
As th' everlasting basis of the earth.
Fool that I was, to trust to quibbling gods!
When to the Delphic fane you took your way,
What said the dark expounder, who perplexes
In double maze what she pretends t'unfold?
These were the words o'th' Pythian sorceress:
"Beasts shall enjoy the reason of mankind,
"E'er Tarquin from the snake disturbance find."
This is the beast, this is the fated snake,
Whom you and I have cherish'd in our bosoms;
And now he brandishes his forked sting,
And casts his baneful mortal venom round,
Threatening destruction. But, avaunt, vain fears!
I have been scared by omens: but the wretch
Who yields to superstition, well deserves
To fall its sacrifice. I'll haste away.
Cowards and fools misfortunes antedate:
In his own hand the brave man holds his fate.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Sextus
's Tent.
ARUNS, SEXTUS, TITUS.
I do not blame the deed, the simple deed!
Oh, you mistake me quite! the deed might stand
Inroll'd; I'll read it rape, nothing but rape,
Plain rape; I'd turn my eyes another way,
Nor add one transient slight remark of mine
To those of conscientious, babbling, sniveling,
Mouth-watering knaves, who envy every man
The dainty morsel they can't eat themselves.
But I see wrote in equal characters,
Bad consequences, such as these, to wit,
Revenge, and mutiny, and insurrection,
And banishment, and loss of empire; these
Denominate the deed with me, and these
I still will harrass and perplex thee with;
And ring thee such alarms, that thou shalt wish
The cut-throat Brutus, or the cuckold Collatine,
Stood by thee rather, with their sharpen'd swords
Levell'd against thy throat.
Pr'ythee, no more;
I don't repent the deed: as for the consequences,
Thy words can't add a sting to my reflections.
Yet I will sting thee, I will taunt thee still.—
No, rather let me, like a loving brother,
Turn thy apologist, and make excuses.
As thus. When lust revels predominant,
Folly and frenzy cut wild capriols
In Reason's court. Or thus, with languid eye,
And whining tone—When beauty fires the sense,
Beauty, soft tyrant! amiable invader!
Consideration turns an hood-wink'd ass.
Or thus, in grave and philosophic vein—
What mortal man can with his finite glance
Survey the boundless waste of future time,
And cull out the events which there are sown
Crude, unexistent, till th' all-potent hand
Of Jove, uplifts them from the dark abyss,
And gives them form substantial?—Oh, man! man!
What a vile fool art thou! By heaven and earth,
The stalking monster man grows every day
More and more stupid and ridiculous.
See the erect machine! he lifts his head,
Proclaims himself a godling! Bend, ye abject,
Inferior animals!—Oh, could I set thee,
Proud miscreant, in thy place, there's not a beast
But I would raise above thee. Reason thine!
The matchless gift of speech! An ox, an ape,
Could I interpret, talks as well as thou dost;
His actions prove it.—Not foresee events
With all thy reason! Instinct then is better.
Which of the herd will plunge into the tide?
Expect the liquid element to change,
And bear him as on land? Did e'er the eagle
Forth from his lofty ayerie dart to th' ground
And not expand his wings? E'er he enjoys
His loving mistress, the stern bull knows well
That he must beat his rival from the pasture.
But why thus throw away my time on trifles!
The most insipid theme that man can talk of
Is of mankind. Titus, see there! behold!
He too will boast his reason; yet he knows not
The veriest insect will, when trod upon,
Endeavour at resistance.
To what purpose
This tends, I can't conceive. Oh, Aruns, Aruns!
E'er we set up for masters, it were well
Did we ourselves still practise what we teach.
Thou, with thy musty rules!—Patience herself,
At opening of thy mouth, would stop her ears,
Or run away fast as her heels could bear her,
Pour in thy potions, Titus; his hot blood
Wants cooling medicines, sedative morality.
Sextus, attend; thy fever shall abate,
And thou shalt fall into a leaden slumber:
And so I leave you both, either to other.
Wise leach, may Phoebus aid thee at thy need!
So shall thy patient's health be sound as thine.
[Exit.
Adieu, dissatisfied, and chiding humorist!
Did I not tell thee what I fear'd would follow?
I pr'ythee, do not thou reproach me too;
Rather advise me in this hour of danger
How I had best dispose myself; to leave
The camp, would argue fear, would argue shame;
Nor would I mid the rabble so exalt
Their self-conceit, to think I aught could do
To make me in their presence hang my head
For one, or t'other cause. Besides, I doubt not,
But that our father's ever-ready mind,
Which like the sierce tide 'gainst the rushing tempest
Still rises stronger meeting opposition,
Will prompt him with the means of wish'd success.
That he will gain admittance into Rome
I little question; and should Brutus turn
A different way toward the camp, those bands,
Which with strict orders watch each avenue,
Will render us as good account of him.
[A Shout.
What sound is that? Methought it was a shout
As of a multitude.
It was; perhaps the guards
Have taken Brutus prisoner, or slain him.
Enter
CLAUDIUS.
Fly, fly, my Lords! Brutus is in the camp;
I saw him with these eyes; he waves aloft
The bloody dagger; all the soldiers hear him
With wildest admiration and applause.
He speaks, as if he held the souls of men
In his own hand, and moulded them at pleasure.
They look on him as they would view a god,
Who, from a darkness which invested him,
Springs forth, and knitting his stern brow in frowns,
Proclaims the vengeful doom of angry Jove.
Herminius and Horatius too have join'd him.
All cry aloud, Revenge! Revenge on Tarquin!
Death to his sons!—Fly! fly! and save yourselves!
Herminius and Horatius! Traitors.—How
Pass'd he the guards?
They brought him in triumphant.
Where's Aruns?
He is fled, my Lord, to Caere,
And bids you follow him with utmost haste.
Whither wilt thou?
I shall straitway to Gabii,
As to a safe asylum. Fare thee well!
Farewel to Sextus!—Oh, pernicious fortune!
From this day forth, I date the utter ruin
Of Tarquin and his sons.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
The Walls of
Rome.
TARQUIN
at the Gate; above,
LUCRETIUS, COLLATINUS, VALERIUS,
and
Roman
People.
Whate'er he says to you, ye gentle Romans,
Let me intreat you answer not a word.
Who's he that asks admittance?
Am I then
Alter'd so much of late, that old Lucretius
Knows not his king? Why are these gates fast barr'd?
And who is it that dares refuse me entrance?
This shall I answer strait. As for my king
I know thee not: tho' Tarquin well I know,
And know him for a tyrant, who long time,
Many a dreadful year of servitude,
Held Rome inslaved; against that cruel tyrant
These gates are barr'd; those who refuse him entrance
Are all the Roman people, who have dared
Proclaim him banish'd from their land for ever.
Is this thy gratitude, old man? From me
Thou hadst th' authority thou now usurp'st,
The government of Rome.
When thou wert king
I held from thee the government, I own it.
Thou from the people then didst hold thy crown,
Who've since deposed thee; from the people now
I hold the interregal dignity.
When Brutus from the camp shall with him bring
Th' enfranchis'd army, if to him and Collatine,
As they've determin'd, they deliver up
The delegated trust, their future consuls,
I shall with readiness and pleasure yield
Into their hands my transitory sway.
Had any others in the Roman state
Fomented mid the people this rebellion,
I should not thus have wonder'd: but that you,
You three, whom I've admitted to my councils,
Loaded with honours, dignities, and gifts
Of price, that you should, with th' ingrateful Brutus,
Whom as my child I've foster'd, join to ruin
Your gracious master, and kind benefactor,
Is one of those strange accidents I labour
In vain to reconcile to probability.
For all the various favours I've received
From Tarquin and his race, I am most grateful;
But chiefly grateful for my murder'd daughter.
I for my ravish'd and self-slaughter'd wife.
I, in the name of all the Roman people,
Confess my gratitude; the many favours
On them bestow'd, now for these many a year
My greatest happiness have constituted.
For Brutus, who is absent, let me thank thee,
Both for his murder'd father and his brother.
Oh, Collatine, Lucretius, all the powers
Who rule this universe can witness for me,
How I detest that hateful deed; none feels
More for the injured father and the husband;
None curses more the impious perpetrator,
Though from these loins he sprang, than I myself.
No; let the criminal bear all the weight
Of your just vengeance; let him be brought forth
Before the Roman people, stand his trial,
As by my royal word I swear he shall,
Were he three times my son; and is his death
Decreed, he surely dies. But must the innocent
Be with the guilty punish'd? Must the father
Bear the son's crimes? the crimes which he abhors?
Yes, when I heard the tale, Lucretius,
I started back with horror, while my heart
Wept tears of blood.
Such tears thou shedd'st over thy poison'd brother.
Such o'er thy wife, brought to her timeless end.
Such tears thou shedd'st over thy good old king.
Such over each assassinated noble.
Such over every murder'd Roman knight.
Such over every death-doom'd citizen.
How much you wrong my nature, you yourselves
Shall be the living judges. Prove my mercy,
Return to your allegiance, reconcile
To my authority the ductile croud
By you seduced: do this, and here I swear,
In presence of the gods, by every tie
Which binds mankind, my eyes shall overlook
All that is pass'd; nay more, I will submit me
To your advice in all things, nor shall ought
That you can ask, not be by me perform'd.
Canst thou restore my daughter to my arms?
Canst thou call forth my wife from her dark tomb?
Canst thou bring back to life ten thousand Romans,
By thy ambition slain, or cruelty?
Oh, Romans! Oh, my countrymen! to you
Do I appeal from these injurious men.
Lo, here I stand, helpless, and destitute,
Imploring pity only, where I ought
To claim obedience; prayers are th' arms I use,
Does this bespeak a tyrant?—See these locks,
Grey with the cares of government! these rather
Bespeak the father. I have govern'd you
For five and twenty years, during which time
I've fought your battles 'gainst your enemies,
From whom you have return'd with honour crown'd,
Loaded with spoils. I'm cover'd o'er with scars,
For you received; for ill doth he deserve
The name of royalty, who braves not peril,
Who shrinks affrighted at the frown of death,
Yet tells his subjects he's not terrible,
And bids them meet the fury face to face.
For you, and for your glory, hath my life
Been still employ'd, I'm wearied out with toil
Endured for you. To raise your name abroad,
And make each kingdom round you mention Rome,
And what belongs to Rome with awe—All this
I've done for you. For you have borne the frost
Of keen December, and for you sustain'd
The torrid dog-star. Have I ever hoarded
My share o'th' plunder? Fill'd my treasury
With stuff which I despised, but as it served
To add to Rome new lustre?—Look behind you!
Are not for you these sumptuous buildings rais'd?
And for your honour? Let the gods themselves
Declare my motives, who now dwell in temples
Fitting their dignity, and Rome's magnificence.
For which of these my works am I exiled?
Oh, you have been deceived, grossly deceived!
If I'm accus'd of any fancied crimes
Artfully lodged against me; till the time
You bid me reign, I shall, as it behoves me,
Lay by my crown. Admit me then unarm'd;
Thus as a suppliant, with his naked head,
Admit your king; he begs at your tribunal
To plead his cause; he asks but common justice;
But to be heard, before he is condemn'd.
Who can refrain from laughter at this sight?
Tarquin, the most unjust of mortal men,
Requiring justice; Tarquin who ne'er heeded
A suppliant's prayers, or in his wrath remember'd
Sweet mercy, asking pity of a people,
Whom he hath ever harrass'd with oppression?
Their glory didst thou seek? No, 'twas thy own,
Proud man. Hadst thou thy people's glory sought,
Or hadst thou truly known wherein thy own
Consisted, thou would'st have desired to see them
Happy and free. What glory e'er did slaves
Receive from conquest? Or what happiness
Can slaves enjoy, seeing a splendid palace
Or gorgeous temple?—While within the heart
Freedom sits not inthron'd, and in that shrine,
Where heaven's pure flame should dwell, lurks discontent,
And struggling, though depress'd, the generous ardor
They from their ancestors inherited,
What Roman is alive to any thought
But one, the secret wish of righteous vengeance?
Retire, false wretch, odious to gods and men,
Retire, e'er 'tis too late, lest, now provok'd,
We ope our gates indeed, and rushing on thee,
Thy sentence change from banishment to death.
Enter
CLAUDIUS
to
TARQUIN.
I come, sent by the princess—
In thy face
I read thy news; draw nearer and disclose it;
But whisper low, that none may over-hear thee.
The guards, instead of seizing Brutus, brought him
Into the camp; he gain'd the soldiers there,
As he before had gain'd the citizens:
Titus and Aruns are to Caere fled,
Sextus to Gabii; Brutus is at hand,
With all the cavalry; if you delay,
My gracious lord, a moment, you are lost.
Ye factious demagogues! and stubborn people!
Once more attend your king! This messenger
Brings me advice, the army is at hand
To aid their master; Brutus, the arch-rebel,
Is by their loyal ardor done to death;
Now then prepare to feel the utmost weight
Of my avengement; if I enter in
In all my terror, by th' immortal gods,
I will have no remorse; I'll shew no pity;
I'll decimate the rebel crew, your limbs
Shall feed the foxes, and each bird obscene,
Unburied, scatter'd o'er the blood-stain'd earth.
What do ye tremble?—Yet deluded people,
If e'er the army come you ope your gates,
Throw down your wearpons, ask my clemency;
You shall, as little as you have deserv'd it,
Or may expect such clemency from me,
All meet with mercy and a gracious pardon;
Nay, and at your request, I'll spare your leaders,
Provided they exile themselves from Rome.
Tyrant, thou speak'st in vain, thy artifice
Is shallow, and pierced through; I saw pale fear
Sit on the chalk'd face of thy messenger.
The army can't degenerate so far
From those brave men whom they have left behind;
They are not from thy native place Tarquinii,
But Romans born, and will with joy receive
Him who proclaims them free.—But should he perish,
Should Brutus (which avert, ye righteous powers!)
Have fail'd in his great enterprize, and met
A glorious death (glorious in such a cause,
And hallow'd, though by th' hands of villains slain,
Of regal fools;) know, Tarquin, there are still
Enough t' assume the part which he began;
Not one, but fifty Brutus's are here,
Who will, in the defence of liberty,
Resist thy power, till the last drop shall leave
Their noble hearts: we are resolved, while life
Is ours, to live like men; if die we must,
As soon or late all shall, like men to die.
[Shout at a distance.
Hear, tyrant! hear! this is the sound of fate,
Which peals forth thy destruction; 'tis the shout
Of liberty, the signal of success;
Brutus returns in triumph; let us all
Prepare in worthy manner to receive
Our great deliverer. This is the hour,
By destiny decreed, to teach mankind,
But chiefly guilty kings, that there are gods
Who care for mortal deeds, and rule with justice
The realms of heaven above, and earth below.
[Exeunt.
Ye furies, glut yourselves! if there are gods,
Who bend so much from their prerogative,
To league with rebel subjects 'gainst their kings;
Make sure your work! strike here! blast me at once!
Use me, as I would use the Roman people,
Were they all as one worm beneath my feet!
Thus would I trample them, and thus.—I leave thee,
High-towering city, keep thy bulwarks firm,
With double strength cement thy stones together:
For if I err not, I'll raise such a flame
Throughout Hetruria, as shall not be quench'd
Till thou and all thy sons be burnt as stubble
Fired with one general blaze; should to their aid
Their traitors' guardian gods descend, I'll bear
The hurrying storm along the troubled air,
By vengeance rais'd, impell'd by brave despair.
[Exit.
SCENE VI.
Rome.
BRUTUS
and
COLLATINUS
as Consuls with Lictors,
VALERIUS, LUCRETIUS,
and others.
Indeed, my noble friends, you judge me rightly;
These honours little move the mind of Brutus.
Ne'er did I covet gew-gaws, or the farce
Of wind-blown pomp. 'Tis not the purple robe,
The curule chair, the lictors' keen-edg'd ax
Inforcing homage, which e'er drew one thought
Of mine aside. But to behold a state
Deliver'd from oppression, to expel
Base ignominious slavery, with those
Who forg'd her chains for a free people's neck,
To see that people bless'd with liberty,
And think that we shall hand down to our children
The most invaluable gift of heaven,
'Twas this expectancy alone, which cast
A light through that black shade in which I dwelt,
And now this having seen, could I enjoy
Th' assurance of its being still continued,
Again, without a scruple, I'd retreat
To my obscurity, known to myself
Alone, hail'd by no tongue, seen by no eye.
That may not be; yet in her infancy,
Her joints quite slack, unable to perform
Their motions, and proceed alone, Rome wants
Thy thinking head, thy executive hand,
And father's care.—I will not say my joy
Superior is to thine, but sure 'tis equal,
At least the force of it can't strain a point
Beyond its present stretch. Lucretius too,
And Collatine, may now feel comfort, calm
As a mild evening, when the sun looks forth
Placidly shining, after the fierce storms
Which overwhelm'd the day.
We do, we do.
Such fellow-feeling with my noble colleague,
Methinks my spirit hath, that I almost,
To see this hour, could venture to pass through
Those agonies, which tore my soul in twain.
Enter a Messenger.
All health to Rome! her senate! and her consuls!
Speak on what thou hast farther to impart.
I hither come, sent by th' inhabitants
Of Gabii; they desire to mix with you
Their share of pleasure, for your late success,
And pray the gods you daily may increase
In every earthly blessing. They intreat
You'll still esteem them as your firm allies,
And ancient friends. Chiefly they hail the man,
Who first conceived, and dared, with brave resolve,
Reduce to action what his mind inspired.
Lastly, I bring advice of Sextus' death,
Who came no sooner to the gates of Gabii,
Without his usual train attending him,
Than mindful of their injuries sustain'd,
Resenting his most cruel deeds, to which
They had been long unwilling witnesses,
The populace surrounding him, with clubs
And stones, the weapons which first came to hand,
Slew the unpitied homicide.
This message
Thou must deliver to th' assembled fathers,
From them receive thy answer. Now, Lucretia,
Thy ghost may cease to wander o'er the earth,
And rest in peace.
Blessed inhabitants
Of Gabii! Oh, ye gods, your ways are just!
Now will I sit me down, and try to bear
Hateful old age, th' affliction of mortality,
But hastening on its remedy and cure.
Yet I regret the villain should be slain
By any hand but mine.
Enter
CLAUDIUS.
Is Brutus here?
My business is with him.
Another messenger!
I know thee well; disclose thy errand strait.
I come from Aruns; what he bade me utter,
If liberty of speech be granted me,
I shall deliver.
Speak; thy words are free.
Then thus he says, tell Brutus, tell that traitor,
That fool who was, that knave who ever will be;
That should I meet him in the field of battle,
Were his skull trebly thicker than it is,
I'd thoroughly examine its contents.
Is this denied me? When I bear the sway
With Titus, which perhaps he may remember
We earn'd together, I will send to Delphi,
On purpose, for that cudgel he presented
Unto the God; with which each day his shoulders
Shall be so flay'd, that he shall wish his feign'd
Were turn'd to real insensibility,
Treated with this correction during life.
Ask him too, if his bravery wars with women,
And whether he hath slain the aged queen?
And dost thou bring no other message?
None.
'Tis worthy of the sender, and the sent.
Go tell thy pleasant master, that I bear
Jointly with Collatine, chief sway in Rome:
Tell him the oracle is now fulfill'd;
Tell him I kiss'd my mother when I fell,
E'en in the very portico o'th' temple,
The earth, the general parent of us all.
And if 'twill farther please him, that the cudgel,
I to the god presented, was an emblem
Expressive of myself, a golden rod
Beneath a case of wood. As to his threats,
Tell him I heed them as the chiding gale,
Or th' ocean wave beating at the fix'd base
Of a high promontory. Though should I meet him
Mid the ensanguin'd field in glorious fight,
Engag'd for the great cause of liberty,
I'll dare the proudest of my country's foes,
And with the sword of vengeance, on his crest
Engrave a mark indelible: tell him
No Roman murders women: that we leave
To Tarquin and his sons; even the croud
Pursued her only through the streets with curses,
Invok'd the furies of her parents on her,
And saw her pass the city gate; so hence
In safety go, to him who sent thee hither.
[
Exit
Claudius.
That missionary did but ill deserve
So civil a discharge.
Were Aruns us,
Neither would he have found it. Now, my friends,
To-morrow will Horatius and Herminius,
The Ardeates having to a truce agreed
For fifteen years, lead all the army homeward.
Then in the common meeting of the people,
Lest they should think two kings instead of one
(Though chosen annually) may lord it o'er them;
One of us, Collatine, will lay aside
Our symbols of command, only resumed
Alternate month by month. The good Papirius,
King of the holy things, shall offer up
Our general sacrifice, while we again,
And every individual then assembled,
Both for ourselves and our posterity,
Renew our solemn oath ne'er to admit
One of the Tarquin race. This night (more grateful
Than clouds-of inconse) let our secret prayers,
Our private gratitude, and thanks, ascend
To the high-ruling powers. For howsoe'er,
Vain man may think he plans with arduous care,
'Tis they alone his sentiments inspire,
They fill his breast with more than mortal fire,
'Tis they alone light up the patriot flame,
They lift the humble, and the haughty tame,
They every human accident foresee,
To them not accident, but certainty.
FINIS.