May I expect him here? and will he dare—
albinus.
My Lord, he will attend you; every minute
We look for him; and Titus is our friend.
aruns.
Have you conferred; may I depend on him?
albinus.
Messala, if I err not, means to change
His own estate, rather than that of Rome;
As firm and fearless as if honor guided,
And patriot love inspired him; ever secret,
And master of himself; no passions move
No rage disturbs him; in his height of zeal
Calm and unruffled.
aruns.
Such he seemed to me
When first I saw him at the court of Tarquin;
His letters since—but, see, he comes.
SCENE IV.
aruns, messala, albinus.
aruns.
Messala,
Thou generous friend of an unhappy master,
Will neither Tarquin’s nor Porsenna’s gold
Shake the firm faith of these rough senators?
Will neither fear, nor hope, nor pleasure bend
Their stubborn hearts? These fierce patrician chiefs.
That judge mankind, are they without or vice
Or passion? is there aught that’s mortal in them?
messala.
Their boasts are mighty, but their false pretence
To justice, and the fierce austerity
Of their proud hearts, are nothing but the thirst
Of empire; their pride treads on diadems;
Yet whilst they break one chain, they forge another.
These great avengers of our liberty,
Armed to defend it, are its worst oppressors:
Beneath the name of patrons they assume
The part of monarchs; Rome but changed her fetters,
And for one king hath found a hundred tyrants.
aruns.
Is there amongst your citizens a man
Honest enough to hate such shameful bondage?
messala.
Few, very few, yet feel their miseries:
Their spirits, still elate with this new change,
Are mad with joy: the meanest wretch among them,
Because he helped to pull down monarchy,
Assumes its pride, and thinks himself a king:
But I’ve already told you I have friends,
Who with reluctance bend to this new yoke;
Who look with scorn on a deluded people,
And stem the torrent with unshaken firmness;
Good men and true, whose hands and hearts were made
To change the state of kingdoms, or destroy them.
aruns.
What may I hope from these brave Romans? say,
Will they serve Tarquin?
messala.
They’ll do anything;
Their lives are thine; but think not, like blind vassals,
They will obey a base ungrateful master:
They boast no wild enthusiastic zeal,
To fall the victims of despotic power,
Or madly rush on death to save a tyrant,
Who will not know them. Tarquin promises
Most nobly, but when he shall be their master,
Perhaps he then may fear, perhaps forget them.
I know the great too well: in their misfortunes
No friends so warm; but in prosperity,
Ungrateful oft, they change to bitterest foes:
We are the servile tools of their ambition;
When useless, thrown aside with proud disdain,
Or broke without remorse when we grow dangerous.
Our friends expect conditions shall be made;
On certain terms you may depend upon them:
They only ask a brave and worthy leader
To please their fickle taste; a man well known,
And well respected; one who may have power
To force the king to keep his plighted faith
If we succeed; and if we fail, endued
With manly courage to avenge our cause.
aruns.
You wrote me word the haughty Titus—
messala.
Titus
Is Rome’s support, the son of Brutus; yet—
aruns.
How does he brook the senate’s base reward
For all his services? he saved the city,
And merited the consulship, which they,
I find, refuse him.
messala.
And he murmurs at it.
I know his proud and fiery soul is full
Of the base injury: for his noble deeds,
Naught has he gained but a vain empty triumph;
A fleeting shadow of unreal bliss:
I am no stranger to his throbbing heart,
And strength of passion; in the paths of glory
So lately entered, ’twere an easy task
To turn his steps aside; for fiery youth
Is easily betrayed: and yet what bars
To our design! a consul, and a father;
His hate of kings; Rome pleading for her safety;
The dread of shame, and all his triumphs past.
But I have stole into his heart, and know
The secret poison that inflames his soul:
He sighs for Tullia.
aruns.
Ha! for Tullia?
messala.
Yes:
Scarce could I draw the secret from his breast;
He blushed himself at the discovery,
Ashamed to own his love; for midst the tumult
Of jarring passions, still his zeal prevails
For liberty.
aruns.
Thus on a single heart,
And its unequal movements, must depend,
Spite of myself, the fate of Rome: but hence,