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

Scena Quinta.

Horace. Camilla. Preculus, and two Souldiers, each bearing a Sword of the Curiatii.

Horace.

See Sister here the Arm that has on all The Alban Champions wreak'd our Brother's fall; The Arm that with the froward Fates of Rome Single has fought, and single overcome;

The Arm has conquer'd Alba, and alone Betwixt two States struck the decision. Behold the Trophies which these Romans bear, These noble Ensigns of a Conqueror: And pay the thanks thou ow'st those Pow'rs that bless The Roman Arms with such a fair success.

Camilla.

Then take my tears, for these are all I owe.

Horace.

Such actions should not be rewarded so. And our brave Brother's noble fall appears Repaid with blood enough t' excuse your tears. "Losses reveng'd once to be losses cease.

Camilla.

Since then appeas'd with blood, they rest in peace, I shall forbear to pay that Fun'ral debt, And will their deaths you have reveng'd forget: But who'l revenge me for a Lovers fall, And dry those tears I pay his Funeral?

Horace.

What say'st thou wretch?

Camilla.

Ah my dear Curiace!

Horace.

Impudent woman, and my bloods disgrace, Does yet that name in thy remembrance live, And in thy heart a love for him survive, That as a publick enemy to Rome I to my deathless Glory, have o'recome? This criminal flame does to revenge aspire! Thy mouth proclaims th'unnatural hearts desire! Govern thy passion better, and be wise, Let me not blush to hear thy guilty sighs. 'Tis now high time to quench that flame, and chace Those clouds of sorrow which obscure thy face, That on my triumph it may smiling shine.

Camilla.

Give me a heart, Barbarian, then like thine, And since thou wilt have me my soul explain, Restore my Love, or let my Passion reign. My joy, and grief, were by his Fortune led, Living I lov'd him, and lament him dead. Seek not thy Sister where thou leftst her last; Thy cruelty that title has defac'd.

And having broke that bond, I am become An injur'd Lover in a Sisters room. Who, like a fury, on thy steps will wait, To blast thee with reproaches for his fate. Obdurate Tyger! who forbid'st mine eyes Should pay their Tribute to his Obsequies. Would'st have my tongue to flatter thee, approve, Boast, and applaud the slaughter of my Love, And to the Skies, whilst thy exploits I rear, Become a second time his murtherer? May miseries consort that life of thine, Till they increase, that thou may'st envy mine; And may'st thou by some act of horror blot The glory thy barbarity has got.

Horace.

Heav'n! what a madness rages in her tongue, Think'st thou I'm grown insensible of wrong, That this affront I suffer in my blood? Approve his death, makes for the publick good; And to his memory prefer at least, That which thy birth owes to Rome's interest.

Camilla.

Rome! that alone does my affliction prove, Rome! to whom thou hast sacrific'd my Love! Rome! that first gave thee life! that perfectly I hate, because she does so honour thee! May all her neighbours in one cause conspire, To sack her Walls, and ruine her by fire. And if all Italy appear too few, May East and West joyn in the mischief too. Far as the frozen poles may Nations come, O're Hills, and Seas, to sack imperious Rome. May her own Walls o'rewhelm and bury her, And may her own Hands her own Bowels tear▪ May Heav'n to whose wrath I votress am, Rain on her Bosom deluges of Flame. May I behold a Lightning fall so just, Her Buildings ashes, and her Laurels dust. May I of Heav'ns justice be so grac't, To see the last of Romans breathe his last.

And lastly (ye just Powers) I desire I may be cause of all, and pleas'd expire.

Horace drawing his Sword, and pursuing her.

It is too much: Patience a while, give place! Down into Hell to seek thy Curiace.

Camilla behind the Scene.

Oh Traytor!

Horace.

So may all offenders die That dare lament a Roman enemy.