Horatius, a Roman tragedie, by Sir William Lower.

SCENA V.

Horatius, Camilla, Proculus, and two other Soul∣diers, carrying each of them a sword of the Curiatii.

Horat.

Sister, behold the arm that hath reveng'd our two brave brother; that hath broke the course of our contrary Destinies, that makes us Masters of Alba; lastly, see the arm that makes today the fortune of two States: Behold these marks of honour, these faire testimonies of glory, and give what thou ought'st unto the happinesse of my Victory.

Cam.

Receive then my tears; 'tis that which I do owe unto it.

Horat.

Rome Will see none after such high exploits; and our two brothers slain in the misfortune of arms, are paide enough with blood, there needs no tears to mingle with it. When the losse is reveng'd, 'tis recovered.

Cam.

Since they are satisfi'd by the blood that shed, I'll cease to mourn more for them, and forget their death, which your hand reveng'd. But who shall now revenge my Lovers, to make me forget his losse too?

Horat.

What saist thou, unfortunate!

Cam.

O my dear Curiatus!

Horat.

Infinite boldnesse of an unworthy Sister! Must the name of

a publick enemy, whom I have conquered, be in thy mouth, and his love in thy heart? Thy criminall heat aspireth to revenge, thy mouth demands it, and thy heart longs for it; follow thy passion lesse, stint thy desires, make me not blush to understand thy sighs; thy flames henceforth ought to be smothered, banish them from thy soule, and think upon my trophies, let them ever be hereafter thy onely entertainment.

Cam.

Give me then a heart like thine, barbarian. If thou wouldst have me to speak my thoughts, restore unto me my Curiatius, or leave my flame to act; my joy and griefs depend upon his fortune: I ador'd him living, and I mourne him dead. Seeke not thy sister where thou left'st her; thou shalt see no more in me but an offended Love, which like a furie fix'd to thy steps, incessantly shall haunt thee, and still reproach thee with his death. Inhumane, blood thirsty Tiger, that forbid'st me teares, that wouldst that in his death I should finde charmes, and that extolling thy exploits to heaven, I should my self kill him a second time! May such misfortunes waite upon thy life, that thou fall'st to the point to beare me envie, and sullie soone by some unworthy act that glory deare to thy brutalitie!

Horat.

O heaven! who ever saw so high a madness? Believ'st thou then that I should be insensible of such an outrage, and that I should suffer this foule dishonour in my blood! Love, love that death which makes our happinesse; but preferre that which thy birth owes to the interests of Rome, before the memory of a man.

Cam.

Rome, th' only object of my sad resentment! Rome, unto whom thine arm hath sacrific'd

my Lover! Rome, that gave thee birth, and whom thou dost adore! Lastly, Rome that I hate because she honours thee! May all her neighbours conspire together in a league against her, and sap her yet unsettled foundations: and if this of all Italie be not sufficient, let the East joyn with the West against her; let a thousand severall Nations (from the ends of the Universe) passe the seas and mountains to destroy her; let her self orethrow her walls upon her self, and with her own hands tear her bowels; let the anger of heaven (by my prayers kindled) make a deluge of fire to rain upon her; may mine eyes see those brave thunderbolts to fall upon her, her houses ashes, and her laurels dust; fee the last Roman breathing his last gasp, and I the cause of this, to die with pleasure.

Horat.

Putting his hand to his sword, and following his Sister, who slies him.

It is too much, my patience gives place to reason. Go thy wayes to hell, and joyn thy self there with thy Curiatius.

Cam.

Wounded behind the Stage.

O Traitor!

Horat.

Coming again upon the Stage▪

Such sudden punishment let every one receive, that dares lament a Roman enemy.