Horace, a French tragedy of Monsieur Corneille Englished by Charles Cotton, esq.
Corneille, Pierre, 1606-1684., Cotton, Charles, 1630-1687.
Scena Tertia.
Horace. Curiace.
Curiace.
Henceforth I see Heav'n, Earth, and Hell contend▪
And whet their fury, which should most offend;
That Gods, and Men, Devils, and Fate prepare,
At once t' invade us with a general War;
And more t' afflict us in the state we are,
The Fates, and Devils, Gods, and Men, I dare:
Since all of dire in Heav'n, and Hell contain'd,
Weigh'd with this honour is to be disdain'd.
Horace.
Fate that expands the lists of honour, does
Brave matter to our constancy propose:
He has combin'd his mischief to make one,
May with our valour hold proportion,
And as he sees no common men we are;
So he no common fortune does prepare.
To fight an enemy for the publick good,
And with a stranger hazard blood for blood;
The poor effect of a mean vertue is,
Thousands have don't, and thousands may do this▪
For a man's Country 'tis so brave to die,
Who would not court so bright a Destiny?
But to the publick when we sacrifice
The thing we most do love, we most do prize;
To fight with a man's second self, his Friend,
And strive to kill him that would us defend,
A Wifes dear Brother, and a Sisters Love,
All ties, and all relations to remove,
And in our Country's Cause t' encounter him,
Whose blood we would with our own lives redeem:
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This is a vertue none can boast, but we,
Few in this glory will our Rivals be:
And few mens hearts, so brave a courage own,
As dare pretend to such a high renown.
Curiace.
'Tis true, our names shall now immortal grow,
Th' occasion's fair, and we must seize it too,
Of a rare vertue we shall presidents be;
Yet there is something of barbarity
Mixt with your noble temper: few there are,
Even of those who most can do, and dare,
Would glory in this case, or choose to buy
At such a price, their immortality.
And whatsoever honour may redound,
'Twere better be obscure, than so renown'd;
For my part I dare say, and you might see't,
I made no very long debate of it.
Friendship, nor Love, nor our Alliance cou'd
Suspend my honour, nor corrupt my blood.
And since our Alba by this choice does shew,
She values me as high as Rome does you;
I think to do as much, and fight as home
In her behalf, as you shall do for Rome.
My heart is good enough, but yet I feel
I wear humanity about me still.
I see your honour in my ruine lies,
And that my glory in your fall must rise:
Ready t' espouse the Sister, I must kill
The Brother; and the blood I mix with, spill:
I know that by my Country's int'rest, I
Am sentenc'd to this sad necessity:
Thus though this task I fearless undertake,
My heart's o'recharg'd, and I with horror shake;
I do commiserate my own distress,
And envy those the War has laid in peace.
Not that I would decline the thing one jot;
For though it move me, it affrights me not:
I hug the honour I receive: but yet,
I must lament, what I must lose by it.
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And since your Rome so strict in honour is,
As to pretend a vertue beyond this:
Thank Heav'n I am no Roman, since thereby
I may retain yet some humanity.
Horace.
Since you no Roman are, strive to put on
Resolves may make you worthy to be one;
And if you'l have your vertue rival mine,
Let it in equal resolution shine.
The constancy I boast of does permit
None of these weaknesses to mix with it.
And 'twere a stain to honour, when we yet
The lists scarce enter, should we now retreat.
Unto its Zenith our misfortunes got
I face it unconcern'd, and tremble not,
Against who e're Rome shall my Arms employ,
I blindly entertain the grace with joy.
The glory that attends, commands like these,
Should banish in us all reluctancies:
And who besides his Country in this case
Considers ought, is womanish, and base.
Our Country's sacred right empales at once,
All whatsoever obligations.
Rome has made choice of me; nor is it fit,
When she commands, further t' examine it.
With the same joy, I on my wedding night
Claspt fair Sabina, Il'e her Brother fight:
And to be short, since such must be our lot,
Alba has nam'd you, and I know you not.
Curiace.
I know you still, and in that knowledge feel
A sorrow wounding as your sharpest steel;
But never knew before I must confess,
A vertue so severe, as you profess:
It like our ills, doth in its Zenith sit,
And I admire, but shall not practise it.
Horace.
Oh! be not good perforce on any score,
But since the whining way affects you more,
Enjoy at liberty that bliss alone:
See where my Sister comes t' assist your moan,
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I'le in to yours, and fit her mind to this,
To bear her self still like whose Wife she is;
To love you still, though by your hand I dye,
And bear her ills with Roman constancy.
