Horace, a French tragedy of Monsieur Corneille Englished by Charles Cotton, esq.

Scena Sexta.

Horace the Father. Sabina. Camilla. Iulia.

Horace the Father.

Dost thou come to us Iulia to declare Whose noble brows the Victor's Laurels wear?

Iulia.

Rather the Combats sad effects, for Rome Is Alba's Captive, and your Sons o'recome. Two slain out-right, her Lord survives alone.

Horace the Father.

Of a sad fight a sad conclusion! Rome, Alba's subject, and in such a need My Son not fight, whilst he had blood to bleed! It cannot be! you are deceiv'd, 'tis plain, Rome is unconquer'd, or my Son is slain; I better do my bloods true temper know, And he so well, what he to Rome does owe, He could not, durst not, but o'recome, or dye.

Iulia.

A thousand more might see't, as well as I. He acted wonders till his Brother's fall; But when once left to fight against them all, And half hemm'd in, flight did his person save.

Horace the Father.

And th' injur'd Souldiers not dispatch 〈◊〉〈◊〉▪ Would they afford the Coward a retreat?

Iulia.

I came away upon the fad defeat.

Camilla.

Oh! my dear Brothers!

Horace the Father.

Stay! lament not all! Two are so fall'n, I emulate their fall. Let noblest Flowers on their Tombs be laid, I in their glorious death their loss am paid; And 'twas their vertues fortune not to be, Survivors of their Countries Liberty; Nor see it by a stranger Prince be sway'd; Nor to a neighb'ring State, a Province made. Lament the base survivor, and the shame His coward flight has branded on my name. Lament the infamy of all our Race, And the Horatian glory's black disgrace.

Iulia.

What should he against three have done?

Horace the Father.

Have dy'd, Or by a brave despair been fortifi'd. Or had he but demurr'd to his defeat, Rome had been subject something later yet: He then had left these aged hoary hairs As bright with honour, as they're white with years; And he, though he had dy'd, had carried hence, For a frail life, a noble recompence. He now accomptable to Rome remains, For all the coward blood that swells his veins. And every drop preserv'd by such a shame, Has quench'd his glory, and eclips'd his fame. Each hour on's life, after an act so base, His shame, and mine, still more and more betrays. I'le cut it short, and whilst my rage puts on A Father's pow'r o're an unworthy Son; I in his punishment will make it known, How much the poultron's baseness I disown.

Sabina.

Be govern'd less, Sir, by that generous heat, And do not raise our mischiefs higher yet.

Horace the Father.

Sabina you may best these mischiefs bear, You in these ills have yet the easiest share, You in this ruine yet do nothing lose; Heav'n has preserv'd your Brothers, and your Spouse.

'Tis to your Country we are Subjects made, Your Brothers Victors are, whilst Rome's betray'd, And dazled by the lustre of their fame, You ne're consider our eternal shame: But your affection to this beast will make Your bosom soon, our miseries partake. These tears you shed weak intercessors are; For by the Pow'rs above I here do swear These hands shall wash e're day do quit the sky, In his false blood, the Roman infamy.

Sabina.

His rage transports him, let us interpose. Must we (just Heav'n) still meet succeeding woes? Our ills are grown too mighty to withstand, When fury threatens from a Parents hand.