Of ev'ry virtue: he is Rome's fupport,
As fuch I look upon him; and the more
He has already done to serve his country,
The more I fhall require of him hereafter.
Know then by what I wish the love I bear him,
Temper the heat of youth; to flatter Titus.
Were death to him, and injury to Rome..
My Lord, I am content to follow Titus,
To imitate his valour, not inftruct him:
I have but little influence o'er your fon;
But, if he deigns to liften to my counfels,
Rome foon will see how much he loves her glory.
Go then, be careful not to footh his errors ;
For I hate tyrants much, but flatt'rers more.
There's not a tyrant more deteftable,
More cruel than thy own relentless foul;
But I fhall tread perhaps beneath my feet
The pride of all thy false insulting virtue :
Yes, thou Coloffus, rais'd thus high above us
By a vile croud, the thunder is prepar'd,
Soon fhall it fall, and crush thee into ruin.
T length, my friend, a dawn of fair fuccefs
A Breaks in upon us; thou haft ferv'd me nobly,
Α
And all is well this letter, my Albinus,
Decides the fate of Tarquin, and of Rome.
But, tell me, have you fix'd th' important hour?
3 Have you watch'd closely the Quirinal gate?
If our confpirators to night fhould fail
To yield the ramparts up, will your affault
Be ready? Is the king well fatisfy'd,
Think'ft thou, Albinus, we shall bring him back
To Rome fubjected, or to Rome in blood?
My Lord, by midnight all will be prepar'd;
Tarquin already reaps the promis'd harveft
From you, once more, receives the diadem,
And owns himself indebted more to Aruns
Foes to our haplefs fov'reign, muft deftroy
Our fair defign, well worthy of their aid;
Or by to-morrow's dawn rebellious Rome
Shall own a mafter; Rome perhaps in afhes,
Or bathing in her blood. But better is it
A king fhou'd rule o'er an unhappy people,
Who are obedient, than in plenty's lap,
O'er a proud nation, who are ftill perverse
And obftinate, because they are too happy.
Albinus, I attend the Princess here
What haft thou done? cou'dft thou prevail on him.
To ferve the caufe of Tarquin? cou'dft thou bind
MESSALA.
No: I prefum'd too far;
He is inflexible: he loves his country,
And has too much of Brutus in him; murmurs
Against the fenate, but ftill dotes on Tullia:
Pride and ambition, love and jealousy,
Open'd, I thought, a paffage to his soul,
And gave my arts fome promife of fuccefs;
But, ftrange infatuation! liberty
Prevail'd o'er all his love is defperate,
Yet Rome is ftronger ev'n than love: in vain
I ftrove, by flow degrees, t'efface the horror
Which Rome had taught his floolish heart to feel
Ev'n at the name of king; in vain oppos'd
His rooted prejudice; the very mention
Of Tarquin fir'd his foul; he would not hear me,
But broke off the difcourfe: I must have gone
Too far, had I perfifted.
There are no hopes of him.
I found his brother; one of Brutus' fons,
Already haft thou gain'd
Tiberius? by what lucky art, Meffala --
His own ambition did it all: long time,
With jealous eye, hath he beheld the honours
Heap'd on his brother, that eclipse his own;
The wreath of laurel, and the pomp of triumph,
The waving enfigns, with the people's love,
And Brutus' fondness, lavish'd all on Titus,
Like deepest inj'ries, funk into his soul,
And help'd to fill the poifon'd cup of énvy;
Whilft Titus, void of malice or revenge,
Too much fuperior to be jealous of him,
Stretch'd forth his hand from his triumphal car,
As if he wifh'd to give his brother part
Of all his glories: I embrac'd, with joy,
The lucky minute; pointed out the paths
Of glory; promis'd, in the name of Tarquin,
All the fair honours Rome cou'd give, the throne
Alone excepted: I perceiv'd him stagger,
And saw him bend, by flow degrees, before me:
He's yours, my Lord, and longs to speak with you.
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