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SCEN. VII.
Old Horace, and all the rest.
Old HORACE.
How's this my Sons? trifling with Womens charms,
When Rome and Alba call you to your Arms?
You must shed blood, then why should tears surprize?
But shun th' infectious sorrow of their Eyes:
For if you stay, their cunning tenderness,
Will on you both, obtain the first success;
And in such Wars to flie is to subdue.
SABINA.
Fear nothing, Sir, they are too worthy you,
In spight of us, you in them both shall see,
All that your Son, and Son-in-law should be;
If our tears could an impression give,
We'll them to your severer vertue leave.
Come Sister, come, let's no more sorrow lose,
These Rocks will still resist such floods as those;
'Tis to despair alone that we must flie;
Go Tygers fight, we'll find a way to die.