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. V.

Horace, Camilla.

HORACE.

Sister, this arm our Brothers has reveng'd, And Rome's declining Destiny has chang'd; Has to Rome's sway subjected Alba's Fate, And in one day dispos'd of either State. Behold what Trophies I have won, and pay What's due from you to such a glorious day.

CAMILLA.

Receive my tears then, which are all I owe.

HORACE.

Rome in her Triumphs will not those allow: Bloud hath too well appeas'd our Brothers slain, For you by tears to wash away their stain. A loss that is reveng'd, should be forgot.

CAMILLA.

Since then our hapless Brothers need them not, I shall not think my tears to them are due, Who are so fully satisfi'd by you. But who will make my happiness return? Or call that Lover back for whom I mourn?

HORACE.

How's that?

CAMILLA.

My Curtius, ah too brave! too dear!

HORACE.

Ha! what are those audacious words I hear? Can my degenerate Sister then retain Love for a publick Foe, whom I have slain?

Thy guilty passion to revenge aspires, But govern better thy unjust desires; Remove my blushes and thy flame suppress, And be in love only with my success: Let these great Trophies thy delight confine.

CAMILLA.

Give me, Barbarian, then, a heart like thine; And since my thoughts I can no more disclaim, Restore my Curtius, or excuse my flame; All my delight, with his dear life is fled, I lov'd him living, and lament him dead. If thou the Sister seek'st thou left'st behind, An injur'd Mistress only thou wilt find, Who like a Fury still must thee pursue, And still reproach thee with his murther too. Inhumane Brother! who forbid'st my tears, To whom my ruine such a joy appears: Who of thy cruel slaughters growing vain, Would'st have me kill my Curtins o're again: May such incessant sorrows follow thee, That thou may'st be reduc'd to envy me, And by some wretched action soon defame, Thy so ador'd, and yet so brutish Name.

HORACE.

O Heavens! who ever saw such raging love! Believ'st thou nothing can my temper move? And in my blood can I this shame permit? Love, love that blow which so ennobles it; And the remembrance of one man resign, To th' interests of Rome, if not to mine.

CAMILLA.

To Rome! the only object of my hate! To Rome! whose quarrel caus'd my Lover's Fate! To Rome! where thou wert born, to thee so dear, Whom I abhor, 'cause she does thee revere. May all her neighbours, in one knot combine, Her yet unsure foundations t' undermine; And if Italian Forces seem too small,

May East and West conspire to make her fall, And all the Nations of the barbarous World, To ruine her, o're Hills and Seas be hurl'd: Nor these loath'd Walls may her own fury spare, But with her own hands her own bowels tear; And may Heaven's angel kindled by my wo, Whole deluges of fire upon her throw; May my eyes see her Temples overturn'd, These Houses ashes, and thy Lawrels burn'd; See the last gasp which the last Roman draws, And die with joy for having been the cause.

HORACE.

CAMILLA.

Ah Traitor!—

HORACE.

Perish, and be that their doom, Who dare lament an Enemy of Rome.