Complete Works of Thomas Otway
Page 42
I never lov’d his rough untoward Nature,
And wonder such a Weed got growth in Rome.
Metell.
What says my Cinna
Cinna.
That I like not Marius,
Nor love him —
Metell.
There Rome’s better Genius spoke.
Let us consult and weigh this subject well.
O Romans, he’s the Thorn that galls us all.
Our harrass’d State is Crippled with the weight
Of his Ambition: We’re not safe in Marius.
Do I not know his Rise, his low Beginning,
From what a wretched despicable Root
His Greatness grew? Gods! that a Peasant’s Brat,
Born in the outmost Cottages of Arpos,
And foster’d in a Corner, should by Bribes,
By Covetousness, and all the hatefull means
Of working Pride, advance his little Fate
So high, to vaunt it o’re the Lords of Rome!
Anton.
Ambition, raging like a Daemon in him,
Distorts him to all ugly forms, sh’as need to use.
In his first start of Fortune, Oh how vile
Were his Endeavours and Submissions then!
When suing to be chosen first AEDILIS,
He was by general Vote repulst, yet bore it;
And in the same day shamefully return’d,
T’obtain the second Office of that name.
Equal was his success, deny’d in both:
Yet could he condescend at last to ask
The Praetorship, and but with Bribes got that.
Yet this is he that has disturb’d the World,
Rome’s Idol, and the Darling of her Wishes.
Metell.
I must confess it burthens much my Age,
To see the Man I hate thus ride my Country.
For, Romans, I have mighty Cause to hate him.
I was the first (and I am well rewarded)
That lent my hand to raise his feeble state.
When first I made him Tribune by my Voice,
I thought there might be something in his Nature
That promis’d well. His Parents were most honest,
And serv’d my Father justly in their Trust.
Then as his Fortunes grew, when I was Consul,
And went against Iugurtha into Africk,
I took him with me one of my Lieutenants.
’Twas there his Pride first shew’d it self in Actions,
Opprest my Friends, and robb’d me of my Honour.
Cinn.
The Story’s famous. Base Ingratitude,
Dissimulation, Cruelty, and Pride,
Ill Manners, Ignorance, and all the Ills
Of one baseborn, in Marius are join’d.
Metell.
Ev’n Age can’t heal the rage of his Ambition.
Six times the Consul’s Office has he born:
How well, our present Discords best declare.
Yet now agen, when time has worn him low,
Consum’d with Age, and by Diseases prest,
He courts the People to be once more chosen,
To lead the War against King Mithridates.
Anton.
For this each day he rises with the Sun,
And in the Field of Mars appears in Arms,
Excelling all our Youth in warlike Exercise:
He rides and Tilts, and when the Prize h’has won,
He brings it back with triumph into Rome,
And there presents it to the sordid Rabble;
Who shout to Heav’n, and cry, Let Marius live.
Metell.
He shall not have it, by the Gods he shall not.
There is a Roman Noble just and valiant,
Sylla’s his name, sprung from the ancient Stock
Of the Cornelii, bred from youth in War,
Flusht with Success, and of a spirit bold,
And, more then all, hates Marius, still has crost
His Pride, and clouded ev’n his brightest Triumphs:
He’s Consul now. Then let us all resolve
And fix on him, to check this Havocker,
That with his Kennell of the Rabble hunts
Our Senate into Holes, and frights our Laws.
Cinna.
Agreed for Sylla.
All.
All for Sylla.
Metell.
Nay,
This Monster Marius, who has us’d me thus,
Ev’n now would wed his Family with mine,
And asks my Daughters for his hated Offspring.
But, for my Wrongs, Lavinia shall be Sylla’s,
My eldest born, her and the best of all
My Fortune I’ll confirm on him, to crush the Pride
Of this base-born hot-brain’d Plebeian Tyrant.
Anton.
Now Rome’s last Stake of Liberty is set,
And must be pusht for to the Teeth of Fortune.
Cinn.
Then Caius Marius shall not have the Consulship.
Metell.
No, I would rather be Sulpitius Slave,
That furious Headlong Libertine Sulpitius,
That mad wild Bull, whom Marius lets loose
On each occasion when he’d make Rome feel him,
To toss our Laws and Liberties i’th’ Air.
Anton.
That lawless Tribune then must be reduc’d,
Unhindg’d from off the pow’r that holds him up,
His Band of full six hundred Roman Knights,
All in their youth, and pamper’d high with Riot,
Which he his Guard against the Senate calls;
Tall wild young men, and fit for glorious Mischiefs.
Metell.
Fear nothing: let but Sylla once have Pow’r,
And then see how like Day he’ll break upon ’em,
And scatter all those Goblins of the Night,
Confusion’s Night, wherein the dark Disorders.
Of a Divided State, men know not where
Or how to walk, for fear they lose their way,
And stumble upon Ruine. Mark the race
Of Sylla’s Life; observe but what has past,
How still h’has born a Face against this Marius,
And kept an equal stretch with him for Glory.
Cinn.
H’ has in the Capitol an Image set
Of Gold, in honour of his own Atchievement;
Wherein’s describ’d how the Numidian King
Gave up Iugurtha Prisoner to Sylla,
And all in spight of Marius. Oh now,
If you are truly Roman Nobles, wake,
Resume your Rights, and keep your Sylla Consul.
Courage, Nobility, and innate Honour,
Justice unbyass’d, the true Roman Spirit,
Presence of Mind and resolute Performance
Meet all in Sylla.
Metell.
Let’s agree for Sylla.
All.
All for Sylla.
[Exeunt.
Enter Marius senior, Marius junior, Granius.
Marius sen.
There Rome’s Daemons go.
Like Witches in ill weather, in this Storm
And Tempest of the State they meet in Corners,
And urge Destruction higher; for this end
Th’ have rais’d their Imp, their dear Familiar Sylla,
To cross my way, and stop my tide of Glory.
If I am Caius Marius, if I’m he
That brought Iugurtha chain’d in triumph hither;
If I am he that led Rome’s Armies out,
Spent all my years in Toil and cruel War,
Chill’d my warm Youth in cold and winter Camps,
Till I brought settled Peace and Plenty home,
Made her the Court and Envy of the world;
Why does she use me thus?
Mar. Jun.
Bec
ause she’s rul’d
By lazy Droans that feed on others Labours,
And fatten with the fruits they never toil’d for;
Old gouty Senatours of crude Minds and Brains,
That always are fermenting Mischief up,
And style their private Malice publick Safety....
Gran.
One discontented Villain leads a State
To Madness. There’s that Bell-weather of Mutiny
And damn’d Sedition, Cinna, of a life
And manners sordid; one whose Gain’s his God;
And to that cursed end he’d sacrifice
His Country’s Honour, Liberty, or Peace,
Nay, had he any, ev’n his very Gods.
Mar. sen.
H’ has taken Rome even in the nicest Minute,
And easily debaucht her to his ends,
When she was over-cloy’d with Happiness,
Wantonly full, and longing after Change.
For Sylla too, a Boy, a Woman’s Play-thing,
She has relinquisht me, and flouts my Age.
Constant ill Fortune wait upon her for’t,
And wreck her Fate as low as first I found it,
When it lay trembling like a hunted Prey,
And hungry Ruine had it in the wind;
When Barb’rous Nations, of a race unknown,
From undiscover’d Northern Regions came,
To lay her waste, and sweep her from the Earth;
Till I, I Marius rose, the Soul of all
The Hope sh’ had left, and with unwearied Toil,
Dangers each hour, and never-sleeping Care,
(A burthen for a God) oppos’d my self
‘Twixt her and Desolation, gorg’d the maw
Of Death with slaughter’d numbers of her Foes,
Restor’d her Peace, and made her Name renown’d.
Mar. Jun.
The Glory of that War must be remember’d,
When Rome, like her old Mother Troy, shall lie
In Ashes.... Full 300000 men,
All sons of Fortune, born and bred in Fields,
Whose Trade was War, and Camps their Habitation,
Hung like a Swarm of Mischiefs on the Hills
Of Italy, and threatned Fate to Europe.
Gran.
They came in Tribes, as if to take possession,
And seem’d a People whom the hand of Fate
Had scourg’d by Famine from a barren Land,
Of Visage foul and ugly, pinch’d and chapt
By bitter Frosts and winter Winds; yet fierce
As hungry Lions of the Desart.
Their Wives with loads of Children at their backs,
Bold manly Haggs, whom Shame had long forsook,
And vagrant living had inur’d to Ill,
Follow’d in Troups like Furies.
Mar. Jun.
And all was done too when that Dolt Metellus
Shrank like a Worm, and Sylla scarce was heard of.
Mar. sen.
That curst Metellus still has bin my Plague,
And ever done me most deliberate Wrong;
Because, like a tame Hawk, I scorn’d to fly
Just at his Quarries, and attend his Lure.
Because I grew too great for him in Wars,
And serv’d his Country well, he hates me. Twice
Have I already offer’d him Alliance,
And ask’d Lavinia, Marius, for thy Bed.
Beggary catch me when agen I court him.
Why sigh’st thou, Boy? still at th’ unlucky name
Of that Lavinia, I’ve observ’d thee thus
With thy Looks fixt, as if thy Fate had seiz’d thee.
Mar. Jun.
Why did you name Lavinia? would sh’ had ne’r
Bin born, or that Metellus had not got her.
Mar. sen.
Forget her, Marius: she’s a dainty Bit,
A Delicate for none but Sylla’s tast,
The Fav’rite Sylla, th’ Idol that’s set up
To blast thy Hopes, and cloud thy Father’s Glories.
Consider that, my Marius, and forget her.
Mar. Jun.
Forget her? oh! sh’ has Beauty might ensnare
A Conquerour’s Soul, and make him leave his Crowns
At random to be scuffled for by Slaves.
Forget her? oh! teach me, (great Parent) teach me;
Reade me each day a Lecture of the Wrongs
Done you by that Inglorious Patrician;
Till my Heart know no Longings but Revenge,
And quite forget Lavinia e’re dwelt there.
Methinks ’twould not be hard, ev’n midst the Senate,
To strike this through him in his Consul’s Chair,
Tumble him thence, and mount it in his stead.
Mar. sen.
Oh! name not him and Consulship together:
Sylla and Consul? set ’em far apart
As East from West; for as they now are met,
It bodes Confusion, Rome, to thee and thine.
Gran.
I’d rather see Rome but one Funeral pile,
And all her people quitting her like Bees,
Driven by Sulphur from their Hives;
Much rather see her Senatours in Chains
Dragg’d through the Streets to death, and Slaves made Lords,
Then see that vain presumptuous Upstart’s Pride
Succeed to lead the Armies you have bred.
Mar. sen.
’Tis such a Wrong as even Tortures Thought,
That we who ‘ve been her Champion forty years,
Fought all her Battels with renown’d Success,
And never lost her yet a man in vain,
Should, now her noblest Fortune is at stake,
And Mithridates Sword is drawn, be thrown
A side, like some old broken batter’d Shield:
To see my Lawrels wither as I rust:
And all this manag’d by the cursed Craft,
Petulant Envy, and malignant Spight
Of that old barking Senate’s-Dog Metellus.
Stake me, just Gods, with Thunder to the Earth,
Lay my gray Hairs low in the Cave of Death,
Rather then live in mem’ry of such Shame.
Gran.
Perish Metellus first, and all his Race.
Mar. sen.
There spoke the Soul of Marius. By the head
Of Iove,
I hate him worse then Famine or Diseases.
Perish his Family, let inveterate Hate
Commence between our Houses from this moment,
And meeting never let ’em bloudless part.
Go, Granius, bid Sulpitius straight be ready
To meet me with his Guards upon the Forum.
By all the Gods, I’ll chase this Daemon out,
That rages thus in Rome; or let her bloud
To that degree, till she grow tame enough
To tremble at the Rod of my Revenge.
Why didst not thou applaud me for the Thought,
Take m’in thy Arms, and cherish my old Heart?
‘T had bin a lucky Omen. Art thou dumb?
Mar. Jun.
As dumb as solemn Sorrow ought to be.
Could my Griefs speak, the Tale would have no end.
Must I resolve to hate Metellus Race,
Yet know Lavinia took her Being thence?
Lavinia! Oh! there’s Musick in the Name,
That softning me to Infant Tenderness,
Makes my Heart spring like the first leaps of Life.
Mar. sen.
Then thou art lost: if thou art Man and Roman,
If thou hast Vertue in thee, or canst prize
Thy Father’s Honour, scorn her like a Slave.
Hell! love her? Dam her: there’s Metellus in her.
In every Line of her bewitching Face,
There’s a Resemblance tells whose Brood she came of.
And basely wedded to a Ruffian’s Whore,
Then thou shouldst think to taint my generous Bloud
With the base Puddle of that o’re-fed Gown-man.
Lavinia? —
Mar. Jun.
Yes, Lavinia; is she not
As harmless as the Turtle of the Woods?
Fair as the Summer-Beauty of the Fields?
As opening Flow’rs untainted yet with Winds,
The pride of Nature, and the Joy of Sense?
Why first did you bewitch me else to Weakness?
When from the Sacrifice we came together,
And as by her’s our Chariot drove along,
These were your words, That, Marius, that is She
That must give Happiness to Thee and Rome,
Confirming in thy Arms my wish’d-for Peace
With old Metellus, and break Sylla’s heart.
Mar. sen.
Then she was charming.
Mar. Jun.
Oh! I found her so.
I lookt and gaz’d, and never miss’d my Heart,
It fled so pleasingly away. But now
My Soul is all Lavinia’s, now she’s fixt
Firm in my Heart by secret Vows made there,
Th’ indeleble Records of faithfull Love,
You’d have me hate her. Can my Nature change?
Create me o’re agen ... and I may be
That haughty Master of my self you’d have me:
But as I am, the Slave of strong Desires,
That keep me struggling under. Though I see
The hopeless state of my unhappy Love;
With Torment, like a stubborn Slave that lies
Chain’d to the Floor, stretcht helpless on his back,
I look to Liberty, and break my Heart.
Mar. sen.
Has she yet heard your Love, or granted her’s?
Mar. Jun.
If Eyes may speak the language of the Heart,
If tend’rest Glances, Sighs, and sudden Blushes
May be interpreted for Love in one
So young, so fair, and innocent as she,
Our Souls can ne’r be Strangers. —
Mar. sen.
No more: I’ll have Lavinia nam’d no more.
When next thou nam’st her, let it be with infamy.
Tell me, Sh’ has whor’d, or fled her Father’s house
With some course Slave t’ a secret Cell of Lust,
And then I’ll bless thee.
Mar. Jun.
I shall obey. Gods, from your Skies look down,
And find like me one wretched if you can.
No, Sir, I’ll speak that hatefull Name no more,
But be as Curst as you can wish your Son.
Enter Sulpitius.
Mar. sen.
Oh Sulpitius!
Thou darling of m’ Ambition, art thou come?
What news?
Sulpit.
I’ve left a Present at your house,
The Head of a Metellus, a gay tall