Hélas! loin de vouloir éviter sa colère,

La plus soudaine mort me sera la plus chère.
439. S. Nihil in propinquos temere constitui decet.
N. Justo esse facile est, cui vacat pectus metu.
S. Magnum timoris remedium clementia est.
N. Extinguere hostem maxima est virtus ducis.
S. Servare cives major est patriæ patri.
N. Præcipere mitem convenit pueris senem.
S. Regenda magis est fervida adolescentia.
N. Etate in hac sat esse consili reor.
S. Ut facta Superi comprobent semper tua.
N. Stulte verebor, ipse quum faciam, deos.
S. Hoc plus verere quod licet tantum tibi.
N. Fortuna nostra cuncta permittit mihi.
S. Crede obsequenti parcius: levis est dea.
N. Inertis est nescire quid liceat sibi.

S. Id facere laus est quod decet, non quod licet.
N. Calcat jacentem vulgus. S. Invisum opprimet.
S. Ferrum tuetur principem. S. Melius fides.
N. Decet timeri Cæsarem. S. At plus diligi.

440. To execute their project of escape,

They hasten to the sea, where in a bay
Their comrades in the vessel lie conceal'd
And wait a signal. Me they have supplied
With artful answers, should the monarch send
To urge the sacrifice. Alas! I see

I must consent to follow like a child;
I have not learn'd deception, nor the art
To gain with crafty wiles my purposes.
Detested falsehood! it doth not relieve

The breast like words of truth; it comforts not,

But is a torment in the forger's heart;

And, like an arrow which a god directs,

Flies back and wounds the archer. Through my

heart

G

441.

442.

One fear doth chase another; perhaps e'en now
Once more on the unconsecrated shore

The Furies seize my brother; or perchance
They are surprised. Methinks I hear the tread
Of armed men approaching. Oh, 'tis he!

But this lady

Walks discontented, with her watery eyes
Bent on the earth. The unfrequented woods
Are her delight; and when she sees a bank
Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh will tell
Her servants what a pretty place it were
To bury lovers in, and make her maids
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corpse.
She carries with her an infectious grief,
That strikes all her beholders; she will sing
The mournfulest things that ever ear hath heard,
And sigh, and sing again; and when the rest
Of our young ladies, in their wanton blood,
Tell mirthful tales in course, that fill the room
With laughter, she will, with so sad a look,
Bring forth a story of the silent death
Of some forsaken virgin, which her grief
Will put in such a phrase, that, ere the end,
She'll send them weeping, one by one, away.
K. And good my lord,

By that you love the dearest in this world,

Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the king
To do me this last right. C. By heaven, I will,

Or let me lose the fashion of a man!

K. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me
In all humility unto his highness:

Say, his long trouble now is passing

Out of this world: tell him, in death I bless'd him,
For so I will.-Mine eyes grow dim.- Farewell,
My lord.-Griffith, farewell.-Nay, Patience,

You must not leave me yet. I must to bed;
Call in more women.- When I am dead, good

wench,

Let me be us'd with honour; strew me over

With maiden flowers, that all the world may know
I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me,
Then lay me forth: although unqueen'd, yet like
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.
I can no more.

443. 'Tis frequent, sir, in story: there I read of
All kind of virtuous and vicious women,
The ancient Spartan dames and Roman ladies,
Their beauties and deformities; and when

I light upon a Portia or Cornelia,

Crown'd with still flourishing leaves of truth and goodness,

With such a feeling I peruse their fortunes

As if I then had liv'd, and freely tasted

Their ravishing sweetness; at the present loving
The whole sex for their goodness and example.
But, on the contrary, when I look on

A Clytemnestra or a Tullia,

The first bath'd in her husband's blood, the latter,
Without a touch of piety, driving on

Her chariot o'er her father's breathless trunk,
Horror invades my faculties; and comparing

The multitudes of the guilty with the few
That did die innocents, I detest and loathe them
As ignorance or atheism.

444. P. O my dear lord! A. No more! go, go, I say;
Show me not signs of sorrow; I deserve none.
Dare any man lament I should die nobly?
Am I grown old to have such enemies?
When I am dead speak honourably of me,
That is, preserve my memory from dying;

There, if you needs must weep your ruin'd master,
A tear or two will seem well. This I charge ye
(Because ye say ye yet love old Aetius),

See my poor body burnt, and some to sing
About my pile what I have done and suffer'd,
If Cæsar kill not that too: at your banquets,
When I am gone, if any chance to number
The times that have been sad and dangerous,
Say how I fell, and 'tis sufficient.

No more, I say; he that laments my end,
By all the gods, dishonours me! Begone,
And suddenly and wisely, from my dangers;
My death is catching else.

445. O. She calls, she calls.

Thou too desir'st my death.
Is there a fury shrouded in thy form?
Who art thou, that thy voice thus horribly
Can harrow up my bosom's inmost depths?
I. Thy inmost heart reveals it. I am she,
Iphigenia: look on me, Orestes.

O. Thou! I. My own brother! 0. Hence away, be-
gone!

Touch not these locks, I counsel thee; from me,
As from Creusa's bridal robe, proceeds

An inextinguishable fire. Depart!
Like Hercules, an ignominious death,
Unworthy wretch, I'll self-included die.

I. Thou shalt not perish! Would that I might hear
One quiet word from thee: dispel my doubts;
Make sure the bliss I have implor'd so long.
A wheel of joy and sorrow in thy heart
Ceaseless revolves. With shy reserve I turn
From one unknown; but unto thee, my brother,
My inmost heart resistlessly impels me.

446. M. Your daughter and your son are now no more: But both with constancy their suff'rings bore.

A. Describe the dismal scene, but be not brief :
Speak all; for I am harden'd now with grief.
Be plain and each particular declare,

For I can hear the whole without a tear.

M. There stands a turret from the flames yet free,
Spar'd only for this sterner cruelty,

On whose high top old Priam us'd to stand,
And with his eye and voice our troops command.
Here with his princely grandchild oft he stood,
And to the boy his father's battles show'd.
That tower hath once our chiefest bulwark been;
Of blood and death 'tis now the dismal scene.
Hither the giddy crowd, with eager eye,
Flock'd to behold the royal infant die.
From this high spot, remov'd no distant space,
A steep and lofty hill commands the place,
Crown'd with a rock, on which the gazing crowd,
Silent with cruel expectation, stood.

447. The throng is cleft; and, full of ruthless joy,
Accurs'd Ulysses leads the princely boy,

Who mounts undaunted to the fatal place,
With innocence triumphant in his face.
When from the tower he saw the gazing rout,
Round him he flung a scornful glance about,
As when some lion's whelp, whose tender
age
Hath not well arm'd as yet his toothless rage,
With eager fury wets his horny claws,
And tries the utmost anger of his jaws;
So fearless the young victim thither came,
And fill'd his cruel enemies with shame.
Him when they saw, the quick relenting crowd
In sighs and tears express'd their grief aloud:
Nay, e'en Ulysses groan'd, and, spite of all
His cruelty, resistless tears let fall.

Then, when the solemn sacrifice was done,
Pitied of all, himself unmov'd alone,