ACT IV.
Enter Venutius and Claudia.
Ven.
ALL's lost! All's lost! And our British Soil
So often fed with dying Roman's Blood,
Is now all cover'd o'er with slaughter'd Britains;
Whose yet warm Gore lies reeking on the Plains,
As if our Mother Earth refus'd a draught
So horrid and unnatural.
Claud.
Where'er
Our Fears Conduct us, still we may behold
The Dead, or Dying, whose louder Cries o'ercome
The Exclamations of the Conquering Romans.
Ven.
Let 'em cry on, till their wild Voices reach
You Auzure-Mansion of the Partial Gods;
But they are Deaf, or sure we might have hop'd for
A happier Harvest of our well-tun'd Prayers.
Claud.
Injurious Heav'n, where's now our Promis'd Bliss?
The good old Priest that shou'd have joyn'd our Loves!
The Virgin Hands to lead us to the Temple,
And Hymen's Lamp to smile upon our Joys!
No Priests! No Virgins Hands, or Lamp of Hymen!
Or if there is, 'tis blown into a Flame:
The Flame of War, that with devoaring haste,
Bounds o'er the Land.
Ven.
O Claudia! Thou Beauties Excellence!
Thou Glorious Prize of my yet fruitless Labours!
The Cause, and the Reward of all my Toyls!
Did I for thee, and Honour draw my Sword,
And must I, must I sheath it in Dishonour?