Horatius, a Roman tragedie, by Sir William Lower.

SCENA V

Camilla, Curiatius.

Cam.

Wilt thou go, my deare Heart? art thou pleas'd with this fatall honour so farre, as to purchase it at the expense of all our happiness?

Curiat.

Alas! I see I must, do what I can, either of grief die, or Horatius hand; I go to this illustrious imployment as to my punishment, a thousand times I curse th' accompt they make of me, I hate that Valour which doth make Alba esteeme me, my flame doth pass from despaire even to crime, it quarrells with and doth assault the Gods; I wail you, and my self, but I must go.

Cam.

No, no, I know thee better, thou desir'st that I should pray thee, and that so my power excuse thee to thy Country. Thou art but

too famous by thy other brave exploits, Alba already hath receiv'd by them all what thou ow'st her, none then thee hath better sustain'd this war, none with dead bodies hath more covered this ground, thy name cannot grow greater, there is nothing wanting to it; suffer some other here t' ennoble his.

Curiat.

Should I premit, and see before mine eyes another head crown'd with immortal lawrels, which glory doth prepare me, and my Country reproach this to my vertue, that it might have trimphed, if I had combated? and by my Love, my Valour lull'd asleepe, crown so many exploits with such an infamy? No, Alba, after th' honour thou hast given me, thou shalt not fall, nor vanquish but by me; thou hast committed to my hands thy fate, I'le give to thee a good accompt of it, and live without reproach, or dye with shame.

Cam.

I hope thou wilt not so betray my trust.

Curiat.

Before I'm yours, I must be for my Country.

Cam.

But wilt thou for it so deprive thy self of brother in law, thy sister of her husband, I of my brothers?

Curiat.

Such is our misfortune: the choice of Alba and of Rome, takes off all sweetness from the names (sometime so sweet) of Brother in law and Sister.

Cam.

Wilt thou also come to present me with his head, and ask my hand for guerdon of thy Victory?

Curiat.

In the condition wherein I am, I must no more think of it; without hope, to love you, is all that which I can do. You weepe, my dear Heart.

Cam.

I have cause to weepe, my cruell Lover doth ordain me death; and when our Hymen lights his torch, alas!

he with his hand doth put it out, and opens a tombe unto me; this unpitiful heart is obstinate to my destruction, and sayes it loves me, when it murthers me.

Curiat.

What powerful discourse hath a Mistress when she's blubbered with tears? and how strong is a faire eye with such help? how tender is my heart become at this so sad a sight? my constancy against it laboureth with some regret. Assault not with your griefes my glory, and leave me alone to save my vertue from your tears, I feele it tottering, and ill defends it self: the more I am your Lover, the less am I Curiatius, already weake in combating 'gainst Amity, should it o'rcome at once both love and pity? Begone, love me no more, shed no more tears; where I oppose th' offence to such strong Armes, I shall defend me better 'gainst your anger; and to deserve it, I'le no more looke on you, revenge your self of an ingratfull person, and punish an inconstant. Shew you not your self as sensible of this injury? I have no more eyes for you. Yet you have for me! must there be more yet? I renounce my faith unto you. Rigorous vertue, whose Victime I am. What! canst not thou resist, without th' assistance of a crime?

Cum.

Commit no other crime, and I attest the Gods, that farre from hating thee, I'le love thee more: yes, I will cherish thee, false and ingrateful, and cease t' aspire unto the name of fratricide. Why am I Romane, or why Art not thou so? I would prepare thee Laurell with my hand, I would encourage thee, and not distract thee, and I would treate thee as I do my brother. Alas! I was to day blinde in my wishes,

I did against thee when I did for him, He returns: what misfortune! if the love of his wife workes no more upon his soul, then mine doth upon thine!