Camilla[Speaker label not present in original source]

May East and West conspire to make her fall;

And all the Nations of the barbaronsbarbarous 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 anger kinled by my wo,

Whose 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.


Reason o’recomes my patience, fly to hell,

And this sad story to thy Lover tell.

pursues her with his Sword.


Ah Traytor—

Is wounded behind the theater.


—Perish, and be that their doom,


Who dare lament an enemy of Rome.

Scen. VI.

Horace, Proculus.


What have you done?


That which I not repent

Her crime deserv’d no less a punishment.


This rigour in a brother seem’d too great,


The name of sister I must now forget,

Her execrations have remov’d her place

And all her title to the Horatian Race

Her treacherous prayers her just resentment warm’d

And Ss4r (113)

And her own blood against her self she arm’d;

Her curses should, before they are fulfil’d

(As Monsters births as soon as born) be kill’d.

Scen. VII.

To them Sabina.


Why should not this brave fury still proceed,

And your pleas’d Eyes on that fair object feed,

Camilla in her Fathers arms expir’d?

If with these generous strokes you are not tir’d,

Why should you not to your dead Sister joyn

The sad remainders of the Alban Line?

Our sufferings like our sins should equal be;

She but laments for one, and I for three;

Her crime no longer could resist your will,

Mine trebles hers, and yet continues still.


Your tears (Sabina) or my sight forbear,

Seem not unworthy of the name you bear,

My dearest half, and let our mutual flame

Which is and was, be ever still the same;

Let both our minds be one, and since to thine

I cannot condescend, grow up to mine.

I feel the grief which gives thee this transport

Borrow my Strength thy weakness to support:

My honour do not envy but partake,

And mine for once thy own example make;

Of two great families thy self and I

Are only left, then why should either dye?


Find greater souls to emulate your own

Then mine; the sorrows under which I groan,

Alas! not you but my misfortune wrought,

Towards you I have no misbecoming thought:

Yet Ss4v (114)

Yet Roman Vertue I renounce, since I

To purchase that must sell humanity.

Can the deplored Sister of the dead,

Like a great Conquerours Wife advance her head?

Let publick Trophies publique Joys adorn,

Whilst we in private, private losses mourn,

Nor value goods which common are to all,

Whilst on our selves domestick mischiefs fall.

When thou cam’st in thou might’st have left thy State

Behind thee, and thy Laurels at the Gate,

Mixing thy tears with mine. This vain discourse

Gives me no comfort, but much more remorse;

Thy rage my crime redoubl’d could not fire;

Camilla’s happy she hath her desire,

Justly to her that love thou did’st restore

Of which by thee she had been rob’d before:

Let now the belov’d Author of my grief

Punish my guilt, or give my tears relief.

’Tis strange that neither favour nor offence

My merits, nor my crimes can recompense;

Nor one nor other shall unwelcome come

When from a Husband I receive my doome.


Ye Gods, when ye did first to Women trust

The Empire of Man’s Soul you were unjust.

Strange! that such weak assailants still should win

The Field, and our unguarded hearts take in.

Where art thou lost? my vertue either fly,

Or leave thy tears, else thou or I must dye.

Exeunt all but Sabina.


Anger and pity deaf to my desires,

Both fly my crimes, and both my sorrow tires:

If neither grace nor punishment I have,

When dead I shall find quiet in my grave.

Act. Tt1r (115)

Act V. Scen. I.

Old Horace, Young Horace.

Old Hor.

From this sad object let our eyes retire,

And the high justice of the Gods admire:

For when our Pride exalts it self, they know

The means to lay our high ambition low;

Our greatest pleasures are with sadness mixt,

And blemishes on virtues face are fixt.

I cannot think my poor Camilla free

From blame, yet her I less accuse then thee.

Have I, a Roman, such a Son begot,

Whose honour such a barbarous Act should blot?

Would she had liv’d though with much greater guilt,

Unless some other hand her blood had spilt.

That might have look’d like justice, but in thee,

Unnatural fury and rash cruelty.


Sir, Childrens lives their Fathers wills attend,

And mine, if you but give the word, shall end.

I thought it just, where she her life receiv’d,

She should it lose, but if I misbeliev’d;

If you my zeal judge brutish and prophane,

And that this action did your honour stain,

The hand that made the blot shall it deface,

And free from infamy th’ Horatian Race.

Let fond affection no pretences make

Your interest or honour to forsake:

Nor let your wisdom be betray’d by love,

To suffer what it self must disapprove.

Tt Old Tt1v (116)

Old Hor.

My son, it were a rigour too extream,

If for thy fault my self I should condemn.

If my command should thee to Death engage,

Why not to life? who shall support my age

If thou should’st fail? let my concernments clear

This doubt; but stay the Kings approach I hear.

Scen. II.

Tullus, Old Horace, Young Horace, Valerius, Proculus,
and Guards.

Old Horace[Speaker label not present in original source]

Sir, to my house you too much honour bring,

I could not here expect to see my King.

Upon my knees——


——Rise Father, rise, the grace

I now perform, is what becomes my place.

To him, I cannot too much honour show,

To whose great merit I a Kingdom owe.

I came to make my former promise good.

As I believ’d, I since have understood

That you declar’d, when your two Son’s were lost,

That constant courage which their Fame shall boast.

To such a publick and heroick Soul,

I thought ’twould be superfluous to condole.

But you, soon consolation well may need,

For your victorious Son’s unworthy deed.

He to the publick too much zeal did show,

When, like a Sacrifice, he rudely slew

His only Sister, ’twas that made me fear,

How you this unexpected grief could bear.

Old Hor. Tt2r (117)

Old Hor.

With great resentment, yet with patience.


That shews the vertue of experience.

Your age hath taught you how in all estates

Ill fortune with our good participates.

Few know like you, this remedy t’ apply,

But let their vertue for their interest dye.

If my compassion can allay your grief,

I give my self, when I give you relief.

You and my self the same extreams do move,

But let your sorrow not transcend my Love.


Sir, since the powers above does Kings intrust,

To distribute below what’s fit and just,

Subjects from them (by consequence) may crave,

That Vice and Virtue their rewards may have.

These men the matter falsely represent,

As fit for pity, not for punishment.


Old Hor.

——A Conquerour to dye!


——Yet hear

With patience, and th’ event you need not fear.

In this we imitate the powers divine,

Our justice both on good and bad does shine.

And vertue by rewards must be preferr’d,

As much as vice by punishment deterr’d.


Then Sir, be pleas’d to lend a gracious ear

And think in mine the voice of Rome you hear.

We envy not his Fame or high report,

Nor do we wish that his reward fall short

Tt2 Of Tt2v (118)

Of his deserts; whatever grace is meant

To him, we all shall joyn with full consent;

But if his valour must a triumph have,

His murther does as much require a grave.

Nothing but death can make that tempest cease,

If you would reign, and Rome preserve in peace.

When Rome and Alba did in Friendship live,

They to each other did in marriage give

Daughters and Sons, but in the fatal strife,

How many Sons and Brothers lost their life?

The sad resentment for our private loss,

The publick joy of every house did cross.

If he this arbitrary power enjoy,

Whoever he dislikes, he will destroy:

Whose life will this bold Conquerour forbear,

When his own Sisters blood he would not spare?

And found that generous way to end the cryes

Of a sad Lady, when her Lover dyes.

Even Rome it self his triumph did enslave,

When power of life and death to him she gave.

We of our lives no longer are secure,

Then whilest his clemency is pleas’d t’indure.

To th’ interest of Rome, I here could add,

Of his rash act, that spectacle so sad.

Still that pure blood, which all his glory stains,

In drops upon his guilty cheek remains;

For youth and beauty would compassion move

From him, whose hate he sacrific’d to love.

But why should Art the eyes of justice blind?

The morning is for sacrifice design’d.

Can he be fit before the Gods to stand,

To offer Incense with that guilty hand?

If in their services such men we dare

Employ, nor them, nor us will vengeance spare:

Not from his power did those three conquests come,

But from the Genius of victorious Rome:

Of the same day, which he in triumph came,

’Tis just the night should see his funeral flame,

And Tt3r (119)

And that his blood may purify that Where Romulus flew his Brother Remus place

Where the vile Parricide committed was.


Horace defend thy self.


——You know the fact,

And I believe your justice so exact,

That the least conscious man can hardly clear

Himself, when to his Prince his crimes appear.

Why should I plead, when what I should defend,

Onely on your disposal must attend;

And mine own innocence I dare not trust,

When you believe my accusation just?

’Tis but my Life which freely I resigne,

Let others ask, but I that suit decline:

Nor seek for that, which I would gladly lose;

Nor blame my Sisters Lover, to accuse

Her Brother: for her death, my voice conspires

With his, and we have both the same desires;

In this we only differ, he would stain,

My honour with a death I would maintain.

Few great and vertuous actions stand so clear,

But envy makes some spots and stains appear:

Which, as occasion serves, is more or less,

Such as the standers by are pleas’d to guess:

And those who have done miracles before,

They streight contemn if they can do no more.

’Tis but in vain, the mention to renew,

Of what your Majesty did lately view;

And therefore, since I can perform no more,

Such noble actions as I did before,

’Tis fit, great Sir, you sentence to attend,

That here my life may with my honour end.

I no assistance heretofore did need,

But now, without your leave I dare not bleed;

My Tt3v (120)

My life is yours, if any other shed

My blood, you are but robb’d when I am dead;

Rome wants not Worthies to support your Crown,

And to advance your glory with their own.

And here I kneel, attending your command,

And only ask that by this fatal hand,

I may a fitting sacrifice become,

Not to my Sister, but to you and Rome.

Scen. III.

To them Sabina.


See in Sabina’s face drawn to the life,

The sorrows of a Sister and a Wife.

All that I ask, is, but that only I

May suffer, with my own lost Family;

What I desire, will be twice just, t’increase

His misery, and make my own to cease.

Think on the streights I am in, must I embrace

The sole destroyer of our Noble Race?

Nor is’t impiety in me to hate

That Princes servant, who confounds our State:

With my three Brothers blood I stand defil’d,

When to their murtherer I’me reconcil’d;

And your just sentence will two crimes remove,

That though I should not, yet I needs must love.

That which I seek, my own weak hand can give:

But I would be condemn’d that he might live.

My Tt4r (121)

My blood (it may be) might those Gods appease,

Whom his too rigid vertue did displease;

I shall Camilla’s injur’d Ghost attend,

Nor you want him, whose hand did Rome defend.

Old Hor.

You, who your duty to your griefs submit,

To Sabina.

And for your Brother, your brave Husband quit,

Consult their Ghosts who for their Country fell;

And for that cause in blest Elizium dwell.

They are content the Gods decree should stand,

That Rome the Sabine Nation should command:

They happy are, secure from hopes and fears,

Nor sighs for sighs, nor tears return for tears.

Be like them, and from their example learn

Thy duty, and pursue thy chief concern.

He ’gainst the Husband does the Wife enflame.

My Son’s brave action a foul crime does name,

Such as not punishment deserves, but praise,

When Virtue did in Horace passion raise.

To love our Foes is meer Idolatry,

And rage to curse our Country when we dye.

Her prayers for mischief with her parting breath,

He thought a crime, and punish’d it with death.

Love to his Country his high passion mov’d,

He had been faultless. had he Rome not lov’d:

Valerius if he please can tell how high

My sense of Honour and revenge did flye,

When me a false report did first perswade,

That my Son’s flight his Country had betray’d;

But who with my affairs did him intrust,

Boldly to judge Camilla’s death unjust?

Why in my house does he presume to owne,

An interest which I my self lay down?

My Son’s crime pardon’d may the same produce,

No matter, if it find the same excuse.

For Tt4v (122)

For shame forbear Valerius this reproach,

To Valerius.

Nor into our concernments make approach;

My Son affronted by th’ Horatian blood,

The crimes of his own family withstood:

And now thou basely wouldst to ashes turn

Those Lawrels, which his conquering brows adorn:

Thou who for fear didst from that thunder hide

Thy head, wouldst him condemn of Paricide.

Rome, canst thou see him sacrific’d, by whom

Thou hast the honour to be still call’d Rome?

Within the Roman Walls he cannot dye,

Where his exploits ten thousand voices cry;

Nor in the fields which his victorious arm,

Glutted with Sabine blood (which still is warm)

Nor neer those three new Tombs, which stand t’express

His courage, and our Nations happiness.

Rome will afford but a few standers by,

And Alba, when they see his Face will fly.

Four of my off-spring saw the morning Sun,

To the King.

Of which Rome’s interest has left but one

To serve your self, and Rome; be pleas’d to give

The Father leave to advise the Son to live.

Horace, believe not that the stupid crowd,To his Son.

Fit Judges of true vertue are allow’d:

Uncertain rumour from their groundless. cries,

Grows in one moment, in another dyes.

Do like thy Ancestors, and then thy Name

Will be recorded in the books of Fame;

Vertue and Honour lift themselves too high,

To be the objects of a Vulgar eye:

Then hate not life, but for thy Country live,

Thy King, and me, who thee that Life did give:

And the result of all I say, is this,

That Rome has spoken in my voice, not his.

Val. Uu1r (123)


Sir, suffer me——


Valerius, no replies;

What each hath said in my remembrance lies:

In equal scales both arguments I lay,

And that shall be my rule, which most does weigh.

I must confess that his enormous deed,

All bounds and laws of Nature did exceed:

But that high crime was acted by that hand,

By which our laws, and Rome it self does stand;

And like a foul ingratitude ’twould show,

To take that life, to which themselves they owe.

It was his single valour chang’d our doom,

Rome had serv’d Alba, as that now serves Rome;

And I my self had then a subject been,

Now on my head two Diadems are seen.

All my good subjects may good wishes bring,

And with devout obedience serve their King,

But few that favour from the Gods obtain,

To save one Kingdom, and another gaine:

And those whose power makes the Laws obey’d,

Of the same laws, ought not to stand afraid.

Our Father Romulus his brother kill’d,

And on his blood did Romes foundation build:

Why therefore should they find a different Fate,

Who redeem’d Rome, and who did Rome create?

Thy merits if thou liv’st may higher climbe,

And raise thy honour far above thy crime;

Enjoy that life which rescu’d Rome and me:

Our selves we must condemn condemning thee.

You and Valerius now like Friends shall live,

And each the others passions may forgive;

Both may be well excus’d, for thine did move,

From too much zeal, and his from too much love.

Sabina be advis’d, too long to grieve, To Sabina.

Uu On Uu1v (124)

On thy great Heart will marks of weakness leave.

Those tears, which for thy gallant Brothers flow,

When dry’d, will thee much more their Sister show.

To morrow we to thank the Gods resolve,

And if our Priests young Horace can absolve,

The Heavenly powers our sacrifice will please,

Her Father shall Camilla’s Ghost appease:

As yesterday did end their love and life,

This day one Tomb shall make them Man and Wife.

Some hearing of this great deliverance,

Are come, Sir, to present you with a dance.

Exuent Omnes.