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

Scena Quarta.

Camilla.

Yes, by assured signs I'le make him see That vertuous Love can baffle Destiny; Nor yet those tyr'nnous cruel laws obeys Our froward Stars seat in a Parents place. Unpitying Father! on so just a score Thou call'st my sorrows womanish and poor: But I the more it does afflict thee, will Dote on his memory, more lament him still, And make that sorrow thou condemn'st to rise Equal to fortunes direct cruelties. Did ever fortune in a few hours space, So often vary her inconstant face! So often kind, and cruel, good, and ill! And strook so often e're she strook to kill? Was ever soul that in one day did bear Such turns of joy, and grief, of hope, and fear? A soul subjected unto more events, And bandied so with various accidents: An Oracle, a Dream, a Battel, Peace; By turns assure, astonish, fright, appease. My Nuptials are prepar'd, and straight my Love Against my Brothers Arms, his Arms must prove: Both Camps abhor the choice, and stay their rage, Whom the unpitying Gods again engage. Rome seems o'recome, and Curiace's hand From blood of mine alone remains unstain'd. Was not my grief (ye Powers) then too small, For Rome's misfortune, and my Brothers fall? Did not my hopes flatter my innocence, When I thought still to love him no offence? His death has paid me home for't, and to that, The cruel way of telling me his fate. His Rival brings the news, and to my face Repeats the hateful truth of his disgrace.

Apparent joy doth on his forehead sit, Pleas'd with my loss more than Romes benefit; Whilst building aiery hopes in his vain head, He, with my Brother, triumphs o're the dead. But this is nothing still to what's behind, On this occasion I am joy enjoyn'd. I must applaud the Conqueror's desert, And kiss th' inhumane hand that gores my heart. It is in such a deplorable case A crime to weep, and but to sigh disgrace. Their brutish vertue in this shock of fate, Will have me fancy my self fortunate. It is it seems a rule the vertuous have, We must be barb'rous e're we can be brave. Degenerate then my heart, let us disclaim This Father's Vertue, and this Brother's Fame. 'Tis honourable to be counted base, Where Vertue rises by such brutish ways. Break out my griefs, 'tis fruitless to forbear! When all's once lost, what have we left to fear? Let us this bloody Conqueror despise, And far from shunning him confront his eyes; Reproach his Victory, provoke his Spleen, And please your selves, by your displeasing him, See where he comes, now let us bravely show What to a Lover's death, chaste Lovers owe.