vengeance.

Horatia. [Aside.] Then it shall do it. Pub. Oh, if thou dar'st prophane That sacred tie which winds about my heart, By Heaven I swear, by the great gods who rule The fate of empires, 'tis not this fond weakness Which hangs upon me, and retards my justice, Nor even thy sex, which shall protect thee from me. [Clapping his hand on his sword. Hor. Drag her away-thou'lt make me curse thee, girl

Indeed she's mad.

[To Publius.

Horatia. Stand off, I am not madNay, draw thy sword; I do defy thee, murderer, Barbarian, Roman!-Mad! The name of Rome Makes madmen of you all; my curses on it! I do detest its impious policy.

Rise, rise, ye states! (oh, that my voice could fire
Your tardy wrath!) confound its selfish greatness,
Raze its proud walls, and lay its towers in ashes!
Pub. I'll bear no more-

[Drawing his sword.
Hor. Distraction!-Force her off-
Horatia. [Struggling.] Could I but prove the
Helen to destroy

This cursed unsocial state, I'd die with transport:
Gaze on the spreading fires-till the last pile
Sunk in the blaze-then mingle with its ruins.
Pub. Thou shalt not live to that.
[Exit after her.
Thus perish all the enemies of Rome! [Without.

Re-enter VALERIUS.

|

For the whole round of fame his worth shall

boast

Through future ages.

Hor. What hast thou said? Wert thou so bent on death?

Was all thy rage dissembled?

Horatia. Alas! my father!

All but my love was false; what that inspired
I uttered freely.

But for the rest, the curses which I poured
On heaven-defended Rome, were merely lures
To tempt his rage, and perfect my destruction.
Heaven! with what transport I beheld him moved!
How my heart leaped to meet the welcome point,
Stained with the life-blood of my Curiatius!
Cementing thus our union even in death.

Pub. My sister, live! I charge thee live, Horatia!

Oh, thou hast planted daggers here.
Horatia. My brother!

Can you forgive me too? then I am happy.
I dared not hope for that. Ye gentle ghosts,
That rove Elysium, hear the sacred sound!
My father and my brother both forgive me!
I have again their sanction on my love.
Oh, let me hasten to those happier climes,
Where, unmolested, we shall share our joys,
Nor Rome, nor Alba, shall disturb us more.

[Exit.

Re-enter PUBLIUS, followed by HORATIA

wounded.

Pub. Strike! 'tis the consummation of my wishes To die, and by your hand.

Hor. Oh, blind old man!

forgive you

The death of Curiatius; this last blow

Has cancelled all, and thou'rt again my brother.

Hor. Heavens! what a sight!

A daughter bleeding by a brother's hand!

My child! my child!

thought to see you

Inflamed with rage against a worthless wretch,
Who has dishonoured your illustrious race,
And stained its brightest fame in pity look not
Thus kindly on me, for I have injured you.
Hor. Thou hast not, girl;

I said 'twas madness, but he would not hear me. Horatia. Oh, wrong him not; his act was noble justice;

I forced him to the decd; for know, my father,
It was not madness, but the firm result
Of settled reason, and deliberate thought.
I was resolved on death, and witness, Heaven,

Enter VOLSCINIUS.

Vols. All Rome, my lord, has taken the alarm, and crowds

Of citizens, enraged, are posting hither,
To call for justice on the head of Publius.
Hor. Ungrateful men! how dare they? Let
them come.

Enter TULLUS, VALERIUS, and Citizens. Val. Sce, fellow-citizens, see where she lies, The bleeding victim.

Tul. Stop, unmannered youth!

Enter CURTIUS and POSTHUMIUS.

Cur. THERE'S something of magnificence a-
bout us,

I have not seen at Rome. But you can tell me.
[Gazes round.
Post. True: hither sent on former embassies,
I know this splendid court of Macedon,
And haughty Philip, well.

Cur. His pride presumes

To treat us here like subjects more than Romans,
More than ambassadors, who in our bosoms
Bear peace and war, and throw him which we
please,

As Jove his storm, or sunshine, on his creatures.
Post. This Philip only, since Rome's glory rose,
Preserves its grandeur to the name of king;
Like a bold star, that shews its fires by day.
The Greek, who won the world, was sent before
him,

As the grey dawn before the blaze of noon:

Philip had ne'er been conquered, but by Rome; And what can fame say more of mortal man? Cur. I know his public character.

Post. It pains me

To turn my thought on his domestic state.
There Philip is no god; but pours his heart,
In ceaseless groans, o'er his contending sons;
And pays the secret tax of mighty men
To their mortality.

Cur. But whence this strife,
Which thus afflicts him?

Post. From this Philip's bed Two Alexanders spring.

Cur. And but one world? "Twill never do.

Post. They both are bright; but one, Benignly bright, as stars to mariners; And one a comet, with malignant blaze, Denouncing ruin.

Cur. You mean Perseus.

Post. True.

The younger son, Demetrius, you well know,

Was bred at Rome, our hostage from his father.
Soon after, he was sent ambassador,
When Philip feared the thunder of our arms.
Rome's manners won him, and his manners Rome;
Who granted peace, declaring she forgave
To his high worth the conduct of his father.
This gave him all the hearts of Macedon;
Which, joined to his high patronage from Rome,
Inflames his jealous brother.

Cur. Glows there not

A second brand of enmity?
Post. O yes;
The fair Erixene.

Cur. I've partly heard

Her smothered story.

Post. Smothered by the king;

And wisely too but thou shalt hear it all.
Not seas of adamant, not mountains whelmed
On guilty secrets, can exclude the day.
Long burnt a fixed hereditary hate
Between the crowns of Macedon and Thrace;
The sword by both too much indulged in blood.
Philip, at length, prevailed; he took, by night,
The town and palace of his deadly foe;
Rushed through the flames, which he had kindled
round,

And slew him, bold in vain; nor rested there;
But, with unkingly cruelty, destroyed
Two little sons within their mother's arms;
Thus meaning to tread out those sparks of war,
Which might one day flame up to strong revenge.
The queen, through grief, on her dead sons ex-
pired.

One child alone survived; a female infant,
Amidst these horrors, in the cradle smiled.
Cur. What of that infant?

Post. Stung with sharp remorse,
The victor took, and gave her to his queen.
The child was bred, and honoured as her own;
She grew, she bloomed; and now her eyes repay
Her brothers' wounds, on Philip's rival sons.

Cur. Is, then, Erixene that Thracian child? How just the gods! from out that ruined house He took a brand, to set his own on fire.

Post. To give thee, friend, the whole in minia-
ture,

This is the picture of great Philip's court:
The proud, but melancholy king, on high,
Majestic sits, like Jove, enthroned in darkness;
His sons are as the thunder in his hand;
And the fair Thracian princess is a star,
That sparkles by, and gilds the solemn scene.
[Shouts heard.
Tis their great day, supreme of all their
year,
The famed lustration of their martial powers;
Thence, for our audience, chosen by the king.
If he provokes a war, his empire shakes,
And all her lofty glories nod to ruin.
Cur. Who comes?

Post. O, that's the jealous elder brother!
Irregular in manners, as in form.

Observe the fire, high birth and empire kindle! VOL. I.

Make sacred all I do, or can attempt!
Had I been born a slave, I should affect it;
My nature's fiery, and, of course, aspires.
Who gives an empire, by the gift defeats
All end of giving; and procures contempt
Instead of gratitude. An empire lost,
Destroyed, would less confound me, than resigned.
Peri. But are you sure Demetrius will at-
tempt?

Per. Why does Rome court him? For his virtues? No.

To fire him to dominion; to blow up

A civil war; then to support him in it:
He gains the name of king, and Rome the power.
Peri. This is, indeed, the common art of Rome.
Per. That source of justice through the won-
dring world!

His youth and valour second Rome's designs:
The first impels him to presumptuous hope;
The last supports him in it. Then his person!
Thy hand, O Nature, has made bold with mine.
Yet more! what words distill from his red lip,
To gull the multitude! and they make kings.
Ten thousand fools, knaves, cowards, lumped to-
gether,

Become all wise, all righteous, and almighty!
Nor is this all: the foolish Thracian maid
Prefers the boy to me!

Peri. And does that pain you?

Per. O Pericles, to death! It is most true, Through hate to him, and not through love for her,

I paid my first addresses; but became
The fool I feigned: my sighs are now sincere.
It smarts; it burns: O that 'twere fiction still!
By Heaven, she seems more beauteous than do-
minion!

Peri. Dominion and the princess both are lost, Unless you gain the king.

Per. But how to gain him?

Old men love novelties; the last arrived
Still pleases best; the youngest steals their smiles.
Peri. Dymas alone can work him to his plea-

sure;

First in esteem, and keeper of his heart.

Per. To Dymas thou; and win him to thy will. In the mean time, I'll seek my double rival;

4 G

Some are designed by nature but for shew;
The tinsel and the feather of mankind.

Dem. Brother, of that no more: for shame, gird on

Your glittering arms, and look like any Roman.
Per. No, brother, let the Romans look like me,
If they're ambitious. But, I prithee, stand;
Let me gaze on thee :-No inglorious figure!
More Romano, as it ought to be.

But what is this, that dazzles my weak sight?
There's sunshine in thy beaver.

Dem. 'Tis that helmet,

Which Alexander wore at Granicus.

Per. When he subdued the world? Ha! is't not so?

What world hast thou subdued? O yes, the fair! Think'st thou there could, in Macedon, be found No brow might suit that golden blaze but thine? Dem. I wore it but to grace this sacred day: Jar not for trifles.

You, that admire the Romans, break the bridge
With Cocles, or with Curtius leap the gulph;
And league not with the vices of our foes.
Dem. What vices?

Per. With their women and their wits.
Your idol Lælius, Lælius the polite.

I hear, sir, you take wing, and mount in metre. Terence has owned your aid, your comrade Te

rence.

God-like ambition! Terence there, the slave!

Dem. At Athens bred, and to the arts a foe? Per. At Athens bred, and borrow arts from Rome?

Dem. Brother, I've done: let our contention

cease:

Our mother shudders at it in her grave!
And how has Philip mourned? a dreadful foe,
And awful king; but, oh! the tenderest parent,
That ever wept, in fondness, o'er a child!

Per. Why, ay, go tell your father; fondly throw

Your arms around him; stroke him to your purpose,

As you are wont: I boast not so much worth;
I am no picture, by the doating eye

To be surveyed, and hung about his neck!
I fight his battles; that's all I can do.
But, if you boast a piety sincere,

One way you may secure your father's peace;
And one alone-resign Erixene.

Dem. You flatter me, to think her in my power. We run our fates together: you deserve, And she can judge: proceed we, then, like friends; And he, who gains her heart, and gains it fairly, Let him enjoy his generous rival's too.

Per. Smooth-speaking, insincere, insulting boy! Is, then, my crown usurped but half thy crime? Desist; or by the gods, that smile on blood, Not thy fine form, nor yet thy boasted peace, Nor patronizing Rome, nor Philip's tears, Nor Alexander's helmet; no, nor more, His radiant form, should it alight in thunder, And spread its new divinity between us, Should save a brother from a brother's fury!