SCENE I.
The scene represents an apartment in the palace of the consuls.
TITUS, MESSALA.
MESSALA.
No: ‘tis unkind; it hurts my tender friendship:
He who but half unveils his secrets, tells
Too little or too much: dost thou suspect me?
TITUS.
Do not reproach me; my whole heart is thine.
MESSALA.
Thou who so lately didst with me detest
The rigorous senate, and pour forth thy plaints
In anguish; thou who on this faithful bosom
Didst shed so many tears, couldst thou conceal
Griefs far more bitter, the keen pangs of love?
How could ambition quench the rising flame,
And blot out every tender sentiment?
Dost thou detest the hateful senate more
Than thou lovest Tullia?
TITUS.
O! I love with transport,
And hate with fury; ever in extreme;
It is the native weakness of my soul,
Which much I strive to conquer, but in vain.
MESSALA.
But why thus rashly tear thy bleeding wounds?
Why weep thy injuries, yet disguise thy love?
TITUS.
Spite of those injuries, spite of all my wrongs,
Have I not shed my blood for this proud senate?
Thou knowest I have, and didst partake my glory;
With joy I told thee of my fair success;
It showed, methought, a nobleness of soul
To fight for the ungrateful, and I felt
The pride of conscious virtue: the misfortunes
We have o’ercome with pleasure we impart,
But few are anxious to reveal their shame.
MESSALA.
Where is the shame, the folly, or disgrace:
And what should Titus blush at?
TITUS.
At myself:
At my fond foolish passion, that o’erpowers
My duty.
MESSALA.
Are ambition then, and love,
Passions unworthy of a noble mind?
TITUS.
Ambition, love, resentment, all possess
The soul of Titus, and by turns inflame it:
These consul kings despise my youth; deny me
My valor’s due reward, the price of blood
Shed in their cause: then, midst my sorrows, seize
All I hold dear, and snatch my Tullia from me.
Alas! I had no hope, and yet my heart
Grows jealous now: the fire, long pent within,
Bursts forth with inextinguishable rage.
I thought it had been o’er; she parted from me,
And I had almost gained the victory
O’er my rebellious passion: but my race
Of glory now is run, and heaven has fixed
Its period here: Gods! that the son of Brutus,
The foe of kings, should ever be the slave
Of Tarquin’s race! nay, the ungrateful fair
Scorns to accept my conquered heart: I’m slighted;
Disdained on every side, and shame o’erwhelms me.
MESSALA.
May I with freedom speak to thee?
TITUS.
Thou mayest;
Thou knowest I ever have revered thy prudence;
Speak therefore, tell me all my faults, Messala.
MESSALA.
No: I approve thy love, and thy resentment:
Shall Titus authorize this tyrant senate,
These sons of arrogance? if thou must blush,
Blush for thy patience, Titus, not thy love.
Are these the poor rewards of all thy valor,
Thy constancy, and truth? a hopeless lover.
A weak and powerless citizen of Rome,
A poor state-victim, by the senate braved,
And scorned by Tullia: sure a heart like thine
Might find the means to be revenged on both.
TITUS.
Why wilt thou flatter my despairing soul?
Thinkest thou I ever could subdue her hate,
Or shake her virtue? ‘tis impossible:
Thou seest the fatal barriers to our love,
Which duty and our fathers place between us:
But must she go?
MESSALA.
This day, my lord.
TITUS.
Indeed!
But I will not complain: for heaven is just
To her deservings; she was born to reign.
MESSALA.
Heaven had perhaps reserved a fairer empire
For beauteous Tullia, but for this proud senate,
But for this cruel war, nay but for Titus:
Forgive me, sir, you know the inheritance
She might have claimed; her brother dead, the throne
Of Rome had been her portion — but I’ve gone
Too far — and yet, if with my life, O Titus,
I could have served thee, if my blood —
TITUS.
No more:
My duty calls, and that shall be obeyed:
Man may be free, if he resolves to be so:
I own, the dangerous passion for a time
O’erpowered my reason; but a soldier’s heart
Braves every danger: love owes all his power
To our own weakness.
MESSALA.
The ambassador
From Etruria is here: this honor, Sir —
TITUS.
O fatal honor! what would he with me?
He comes to snatch my Tullia from my sight;
Comes to complete the measure of my woes.
SCENE II.
TITUS. ARUNS.
ARUNS.
After my long and fruitless toils to serve
The state of Rome, and her ungrateful senate,
Permit me here to pay the homage due
To generous courage, and transcendent virtue;
Permit me to admire the gallant hero
Who saved his country on the brink of ruin:
Alas! thou hast deserved a fairer meed,
A cause more noble, and another foe;
Thy valor merited a better fate:
Kings would rejoice, and such I know there are,
To trust their empire with an arm like thine,
Who would not dread the virtues they admire,
Like jealous Rome and her proud senate: O!
I cannot bear to see the noble Titus
Serving these haughty tyrants; who, the more
You have obliged them, hate you more: to them
Your merit’s a reproach; mean vulgar souls,
Born to obey, they lift the oppressive hand
Against their great deliverer, and usurp
Their sovereign’s rights; from thee they should receive
Those orders which they give.
TITUS.
I thank you, Sir,
For all your cares, your kind regard for Titus,
And guess the cause: your subtle policy
Would wind me to your secret purposes,
And arm my rage against the commonweal;
But think not to impose thus on my frankness;
My heart is open, and abhors design:
The senate have misused me, and I hate them,
I ought to hate them; but I’ll serve them still:
When Rome engages in the common cause,
No private quarrels taint the patriot breast;
Superior then to party strife, we rush
United on against the general foe:
Such are my thoughts, and such they ever will be;
Thou knowest me now: or call it virtue in me,
Or call it partial fondness, what you please,
But, born a Roman, I will die for Rome,
And love this hard unjust suspicious senate,
More than the pomp and splendor of a court
Beneath a master, for I am the son
Of Brutus, and have graved upon my heart
The love of freedom, and the hate of kings.
ARUNS.
But does not Titus soothe his flattered heart
With fancied bliss, and visionary charms?
I too, my lord, though born within the sway
Of regal power, am fond of liberty;
You languish for her, yet enjoy her not.
Is there on earth, with all your boasted freedom,
Aught more despotic than a commonweal?
Your laws are tyrants; and their barbarous rigor
Deaf to the voice of merit, to applause,
To family, and fame, throws down distinction;
The senate grind you, and the people scorn;
You must affright them, or they will enslave you:
A citizen of Rome is ever jealous
Or insolent; he is your equal still,
Or still your foe, because inferior to you:
He cannot bear the lustre of high fortune;
Looks with an eye severe on every action;
In all the service you have done him, sees
Naught but the injury you have power to do;
And for the blood which you have shed for him,
You’ll be repaid at last with — banishment.
A court, I own’s a dangerous element,
And has its storms, but not so frequent; smooth
Its current glides, its surface more serene:
That boasted native of another soil,
Fair liberty, here sheds her sweetest flowers:
A king can love, can recompense your service,
And mingles happiness with glory; there
Cherished beneath the shade of royal favor,
Long mayest thou flourish, only serve a master,
And be thyself the lord of all beside:
The vulgar, ever to their sovereign’s will
Obedient, still respect and honor those
Whom he protects, nay love his very faults:
We never tremble at a haughty senate,
Or her harsh laws: O! would that, born as thou art,
To shine with equal lustre in a court
Or in a camp, thou wouldst but taste the charms
Of Tarquin’s goodness! for he loved thee, Titus,
And would have shared his fortunes with thee; then
Had the proud senate, prostrate at thy feet —
TITUS.
I’ve seen the court of Tarquin, and despise it:
I know I might have cringed for his protection,
Been his first slave, and tyrannized beneath him;
But, thanks to heaven, I am not fallen so low:
I would be great, but not by meanness rise
To grandeur: no, it never was my fate
To serve: I’ll conquer kings, do thou obey them.
ARUNS.
I must approve thy constancy; but think,
My lord, how Tarquin, in thy infant years,
Guided thy tender youth: he oft remembers
The pleasing office, and but yesterday,
Lamenting his lost son, and sad misfortunes,
“Titus,” said he, “was once my best support,
He loved us all, and he alone deserved
My kingdom and my daughter.”
TITUS.
Ha! his daughter!
Ye gods! my Tullia! O unhappy vows!
ARUNS.
Even now I carry her to Tarquin; him
Whom thou hast thus deserted, far from thee,
And from her country, soon must Tullia go;
Liguria’s king accepts of her in marriage:
Meantime thou, Titus, must obey the senate,
Oppress her father, and destroy his kingdom:
And may these vaulted roofs, these towers in flame,
And this proud capitol in ashes laid,
Like funeral torches, shine before your people,
To light the Roman senate to its grave.
Or serve to grace our happy Tullia’s nuptials!
SCENE III.
TITUS, MESSALA.
TITUS.
Messala, in what anguish hath he left me!
Would Tarquin then have given her to my arms!
O cruel fate! and might I thus — O no,
Deceitful minister! thou camest to search
My foolish heart; alas! he saw too well,
Read in my eyes the dear destructive passion,
He knows my weakness, and returns to Tarquin
To smile at Titus, and insult his love:
And might I then have wedded her, possessed
That lovely maid, and spent a life of bliss
Within her arms, had heaven allotted me
So fair a fate! O I am doubly wretched.
MESSALA.
Thou mightest be happy; Aruns would assist thee,
Trust me, he would, and second thy warm wishes.
TITUS.
No: I must bid adieu to my fond hopes;
Rome calls me to the capitol; the people
Who raised triumphal arches to my glory,
And love me for my labors past, expect me,
To take with them the inviolable oath,
The solemn pledge of sacred liberty.
MESSALA.
Go then, and serve your tyrants.
TITUS.
I will serve them;
It is my duty, and I must fulfil it.
MESSALA.
And yet you sigh.
TITUS.
‘Tis a hard victory.
MESSALA.
And bought too dearly.
TITUS.
Therefore ‘tis more glorious.
Messala, do not leave me in affliction.
[Exit Titus.
MESSALA.
I’ll follow him, to sharpen his resentment,
And strike the envenomed dagger to his heart.
SCENE IV.
BRUTUS, MESSALA.
BRUTUS.
Messala, stop; I’d speak with you.
MESSALA.
With me?
BRUTUS.
With you. A deadly poison late hath spread
Its secret venom o’er my house: my son,
Tiberius, is with jealous rage inflamed
Against his brother; it appears too plain;
Whilst Titus burns with most unjust resentment
Against the senate: the ambassador,
That shrewd Etruscan, has observed their weakness,
And doubtless profits by it: he has talked
To both: I dread the tongues of subtle statesmen,
Grown old in the chicanery of a court:
To-morrow he returns: a day’s too much
To give a traitor, and ofttimes is fatal:
Go thou, Messala, tell him he must hence
This day: I’ll have it so.
MESSALA.
‘Tis prudent, Sir,
And I obey you.
BRUTUS.
But this is not all:
My son, the noble Titus, loves thee well;
I know the power that sacred friendship hath
O’er minds like his; a stranger to distrust
Or diffidence, he yields his artless soul
To thy experience; and the more his heart
Relies on thee, the more may I expect,
That, able as thou art to guide his steps,
Thou wilt not turn them from the paths of virtue,
Or take advantage of his easy youth
To taint his guiltless heart with fond ambition.
MESSALA.
That was even now the subject of our converse;
He strives to imitate his godlike sire;
Rome’s safety is the object of his care:
Blindly he loves his country, and his father.
BRUTUS.
And so he ought; but above all, the laws;
To them he should be still a faithful slave;
Who breaks the laws, can never love his country.
MESSALA.
We know his patriot zeal, and both have seen it.
BRUTUS.
He did his duty.
MESSALA.
Rome had done hers too,
If she had honored more so good a son.
BRUTUS.
Messala, no: it suited not his age
To take the consulship; he had not even
The voice of Brutus: trust me, the success
Of his ambition would have soon corrupted
His noble mind, and the rewards of virtue
Had then become hereditary: soon
Should we have seen the base unworthy son
Of a brave father claim superior rank,
Unmerited, in sloth and luxury,
As our last Tarquin but too plainly proved.
How very seldom they deserve a crown
Who’re born to wear it! O! preserve us, heaven,
From such destructive vile abuse of power,
The nurse of folly, and the grave of virtue!
If thou indeed dost love my son, (and much
I hope thou dost) show him a fairer path
To glory; root out from his heart the pride
Of false ambition: he who serves the state
Is amply recompensed: the son of Brutus
Should shine a bright example to the world
Of every virtue: he is Rome’s support,
As such I look upon him; and the more
He has already done to serve his country,
The more I shall 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.
MESSALA.
My lord, I am content to follow Titus,
To imitate his valor, not instruct him:
I have but little influence o’er your son;
But, if he deigns to listen to my counsels,
Rome soon will see how much he loves her glory.
BRUTUS.
Go then, be careful not to soothe his errors;
For I hate tyrants much, but flatterers more.
[Exit Brutus.
SCENE V.
MESSALA.
[Alone.
There’s not a tyrant more detestable,
More cruel than thy own relentless soul;
But I shall tread perhaps beneath my feet
The pride of all thy false insulting virtue:
Yes, thou Colossus, raised thus high above us
By a vile crowd, the thunder is prepared,
Soon shall it fall, and crush thee into ruin.
End of the Second Act.