Poems by the most deservedly admired Mrs. Katherine Philips, the matchless Orinda ; to which is added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey & Horace, tragedies ; with several other translations out of French.

SCEN. II.

Old Horace, Camilla, Valerius.

VALERIUS.

I'm sent to wait upon you from the King, Who mourns your loss—

Old HORACE.

That merits not his care, And I the needless complement can spare; I my Sons deaths rather than shame would know, And tears than blushes better can allow; They that are slain, like men of honour dy'd, And that's enough—

VAL.

But they are all supply'd By him that lives, and his immortal Fame.

Old HOR.

Would he had perish'd too, and all my Name!

VAL.

Can only you his Virtue dis-esteem?

Old HOR.

'Tis I alone that ought to punish him.

VAL.

And what offence has in his conduct been?

Old HOR.

But what great Vertue in his flight was seen?

VAL.

Flight in this case wears an illustrious Name.

Old HOR.

Why do you cover my gray hairs with shame? Th' example's rare indeed! and few would die, If men could catch bright honour when they flie.

VAL.

Do you a shame, and a confusion call, T' have had a Son who has preserv'd us all; Who with new triumphs did Rome's Empire save? What greater honours could a Father have?

Old HOR.

What Honours and what Triumphs brings he home, When Alba must dispose the Fate of Rome?

VAL.

What great success of Alba has appear'd? Or have you yet but half the story heard?

Old HOR.

Was not the Combat ended by his flight?

VAL.

So Alba thought at that mistaken sight, But she soon found, he fled but as became A man entrusted with his Country's Fame.

HOR.

Does Rome triumph?

VAL.

O! his great story hear, To whom you so unjustly are severe. When he against three Foes was left alone, Each of them having wounds, he having none; Too weak for all, too strong for either's rage, He dext'rously himself did dis-engage; The stratagem of seeming flight he try'd, And so th' abused Brothers does divide; They all pursue, yet not with equal haste, But as their wounds permit them, slow or fast: Horace looks back his scatter'd Foes upon, Whom he already thinks half overthrown:

He waits your Son-in-law, for he was first; Who much incens'd to see that so he durst, His utmost braving does in vain express, For his lost Blood denys him the success; Alba, whose hopes with Curtius strength decay'd, Soon his next Brother summons to his aid, Who hastening to his rescue finds too late, He was preceded by his Brother's fate.

CAMILLA.

Alas!

VALERIUS.

Yet breathless his revenge begun, But quickly gives new conquest to your Son; Who soon defeated all the Arts he try'd, And laid him gasping by his Brothers side: The Air resounds with noises thither sent From Roman Joy, and Alban discontent. Our Hero, when so near his triumph drew, Not only conquers now, but braves them too: I to my Brothers shades give what is past, But to thee Rome I sacrifice this last; Accept dear Country, this so noble Blood, (Says he,) and flies to make his promise good. The victory did scarce admit suspence, The wounded Alban making small defence, But as a Victim to the Altar goes, And his Throat offers to the deadly blows; So he gave up his undefended breath, Securing Rome's Dominion by his Death.

Old HORACE.

O! my brave Son! true heir of all renown, Onely supporter of a falling Crown! O Vertue worthy of Romes boast and mine! Thy Country's succour, glory of thy Line! When into tenderness shall I convert, All my injustice to thy great desert? When shall I my repenting kindness show, And with glad tears bathe thy victorious Brow!

VAL.

That your Endearments may soon find a place, The King will hasten him to your Embrace; And therefore till to morrow is delay'd The Sacrifice which must to heav'n be paid; This day no other Gratitude allows, But Songs of Triumph, and the publick Vows; Where Horace waits the King, by whom I'm sent To ease your Grief, and heighten your content: But this is not enough for him to pay, He'll come himself, and that perhaps to day. This noble action does oblige him so, That his own thanks he will on you bestow, Who have resign'd your Sons to save his Throne.

Old HOR.

That honour is too great for me to own; And I'm requited, by what you have said, For all the Blood my Sons have spilt or shed.

VAL.

The King, who no imperfect bounty knows, His rescu'd Scepter from insulting Foes Values so much, that all that he can do, He thinks below either your Son or You: But I shall tell him with what noble fire Heroick Vertue does your Soul inspire, And how much Loyal Zeal to him you bear.

Old HOR.

You'l much oblige me by so kind a care.