Part 8 (2/2)

_Sem._ Know, villains, when such paltry slaves presume To mix in treason, if the plot succeeds, They're thrown neglected by; but if it fails, They're sure to die like dogs, as you shall do.

Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth To sudden death.

_1 Lead._ Nay, since it comes to this--

_Sem._ Dispatch them quick, but first pluck out their tongues, Lest with their dying breath they sow sedition.

[_Exeunt_ GUARDS, _with their_ LEADERS.

_Enter_ SYPHAX.

_Syph._ Our first design, my friend, has proved abortive; Still there remains an after-game to play; My troops are mounted; Let but Semp.r.o.nius head us in our flight, We'll force the gate where Marcus keeps his guard, And hew down all that would oppose our pa.s.sage.

A day will bring us into Caesar's camp.

_Sem._ Confusion! I have fail'd of half my purpose: Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind!

_Syph._ How! will Semp.r.o.nius turn a woman's slave?

_Sem._ Think not thy friend can ever feel the soft Unmanly warmth and tenderness of love.

Syphax, I long to clasp that haughty maid, And bend her stubborn virtue to my pa.s.sion: When I have gone thus far, I'd cast her off.

_Syph._ Well said! that's spoken like thyself, Semp.r.o.nius!

What hinders, then, but that thou find her out, And hurry her away by manly force?

_Sem._ But how to gain admission? For access Is given to none but Juba, and her brothers.

_Syph._ Thou shalt have Juba's dress, and Juba's guards; The doors will open, when Numidia's prince Seems to appear before the slaves that watch them.

_Sem._ Heavens, what a thought is there! Marcia's my own!

How will my bosom swell with anxious joy, When I behold her struggling in my arms, With glowing beauty, and disorder'd charms, While fear and anger, with alternate grace, Pant in her breast, and vary in her face!

So Pluto seized off Proserpine, convey'd To h.e.l.l's tremendous gloom th' affrighted maid; There grimly smiled, pleased with the beauteous prize, Nor envied Jove his suns.h.i.+ne and his skies. [_Exeunt._

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.

_A Chamber._

_Enter_ LUCIA _and_ MARCIA.

_Lucia._ Now, tell me, Marcia, tell me from thy soul, If thou believest 'tis possible for woman To suffer greater ills than Lucia suffers?

_Marcia_ Oh, Lucia, Lucia, might my big swol'n heart Vent all its griefs, and give a loose to sorrow, Marcia could answer thee in sighs, keep pace With all thy woes, and count out tear for tear.

_Lucia._ I know thou'rt doom'd alike to be beloved By Juba, and thy father's friend, Semp.r.o.nius: But which of these has power to charm like Portius?

_Marcia._ Still, I must beg thee not to name Semp.r.o.nius.

Lucia, I like not that loud, boist'rous man.

Juba, to all the bravery of a hero, Adds softest love, and more than female sweetness; Juba might make the proudest of our s.e.x, Any of womankind, but Marcia, happy.

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