What drew it from you, and the cause soon learn'd,
For she, whom barbarism could deny nothing,
With such prevailing earnestness desir'd it,
'Twas not in me, though it had been my death,
To hide it from her ;-she, I say, in whom
All was that Athens, Rome, or warlike Sparta,
Have register'd for good in their best women,
But nothing of their ill; knowing herself
Mark'd out (I know not by what power, but sure
A cruel one) to die to give you children;
Having first with a settled countenance
Look'd up to heaven, and then upon herself,
(It being the next best object) and then smil❜d,
As if her joy in death to do you service
Would break forth in despite of the much sorrow
She show'd she had to leave you; and then taking
Me by the hand, (this hand which I must ever
Love better than I have done, since she touch'd
it,)
“Go,” said she, “to my lord, (and to go to him
Is such a happiness I must not hope for,)
And tell him that he too much priz'd a trifle
Made only worthy in his love and her
Thankful acceptance, for her sake to rob
The orphan kingdom of such guardians as
Must of necessity descend from him;
And therefore in some part of recompense
Of his much love, and to show to the world
That 'twas not her fault only, but her fate,
That did deny to let her be the mother
Of such most certain blessings; yet, for proof
She did not envy her, that happy her
That is appointed to them, her quick end
Should make way for her."
But in a moment this too ready engine
Made such a battery in the choicest castle
That ever Nature made to defend life,
That straight it shook and sunk.
BONDUCA, A TRAGEDY:
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
BONDUCA, the British Queen, taking occasion from a Defeat of the Romans to impeach their Valour, is rebuked by CarataCH,
BONDUCA, CARATACH, HENGO, NENNIUS, Soldiers. Bon. The hardy Romans! oh, ye gods of Britain !The rust of arms, the blushing shame of soldiers! Are these the men that conquer by inheritance? The fortune-makers? these the Julians,
That with the sun measure the end of nature, Making the world but one Rome and one Cæsar? Shame, how they flee! Cæsar's soft soul dwells in 'em ;
Their mothers got 'em sleeping, Pleasure nurs'd
Their bodies sweat with sweet oils, love's allure
Dare they send these to seek us, These Roman girls? Is Britain grown so wanton ? Twice we have beat 'em, Nennius scatter'd them ; And through their big-bon'd Germans, on whose pikes
The honour of their actions sit in triumph,
Made themes for songs to shame 'em : and a woman,
A woman beat them, Nennius; a weak woman,
A woman beat these Romans !
Car. So it seems; a man would shame to talk so.
Bon. Who's that?
Bon. Cousin, do you grieve at my fortunes?
Car. No, Bonduca ;
If I grieve, 'tis the bearing of your
You put too much wind to your sail : discretion
And hardy valour are the twins of honour,
And, nurs'd together, make a conqueror;
Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth,
That Rome has fled before us twice, and routed;
A truth we ought to crown the gods for, lady,
And not our tongues; a truth is none of ours,
Nor in our ends, more than the noble bearing;
For then it leaves to be a virtue, lady,
And we, that have been victors, beat ourselves,
When we insult upon our honour's subject.
Bon. My valiant cousin, is it foul to say
What liberty and honour bid us do,
And what the gods allow us?
Car. No, Bonduca ;
So what we say exceed not what we do.
Ye call the Romans-fearful, fleeing Romans,
And Roman girls, the lees of tainted pleasures :
Does this become a doer? are they such?
Bon. They are no more.
Car. Where is your conquest, then?
Why are your altars crown'd with wreaths of flowers?
The beasts with gilt horns waiting for the fire?
The holy Druids composing songs
Of everlasting life to victory?
Why are these triumphs, lady? for a May-game ?
For hunting a poor herd of wretched Romans?
Is it no more? Shut up your temples, Britons,
And let the husbandman redeem his heifers;
Put out your holy fires, no timbrel ring;
Let's home and sleep; for such great overthrows
A candle burns too bright a sacrifice;
A glow-worm's tail too full a flame.—Oh, Nennius,
Thou hadst a noble uncle knew a Roman,
And how to speak him, how to give him weight
In both his fortunes!
Bon. By the gods, I think
Ye dote upon these Romans, Caratach.
Car. Witness these wounds, I do; they were fairly given :
I love an enemy; I was born a soldier ;
And he that in the
head on 's troop defies me, Bending my manly body with his sword, I make a mistress. Yellow-tressed Hymen Ne'er tied a longing virgin with more joy, Than I am married to that man that wounds me : And are not all these Roman? Ten struck battles I suck'd these honour'd scars from, and all Roman ; Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches, (When many a frozen storm sung thorough my cuirass,
And made it doubtful whether that or I
Were the more stubborn metal) have I wrought through,
And all to try these Romans: ten times a-night
I have swum the rivers, when the stars of Rome
Shot at me as I floated, and the billows
Tumbled their watery ruins on my shoulders,
Charging my batter'd sides with troops of agues;
And still to try these Romans, whom I found
(And, if I lie, my wounds be henceforth backward,
And be you witness, gods, and all my dangers !)
As ready, and as full of that I brought
(Which was not fear nor flight), as valiant,
As vigilant, as wise, to do and suffer,
Ever advanc'd as forward as the Britons,
Their sleeps as short, their hopes as high as ours,
Ay, and as subtle, lady. "Tis dishonour,
And, follow'd, will be impudence, Bonduca,
And grow to no belief, to taint these Romans.
Have I not seen the Britons
Bon. What?
Car. Dishearten'd,
Run, run, Bonduca; not the quick rack swifter,
The virgin from the hated ravisher
Not half so fearful; not a flight drawn home
A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish,
E'er made that haste that they have. By the gods,
I have seen these Britons, that you magnify,
Run as they would have out-run time, and roaring,
Basely for mercy roaring; the light shadows,
That in a thought scur o'er the fields of corn,
Halted on crutches to 'em.
Bon. Oh, ye powers,
What scandals do I suffer!
Car. Yes, Bonduca,
I have seen thee run too; and thee, Nennius;
Yea, run apace, both; then when Poenius
(The Roman girl!) cut thorough your armed carts,
And drove 'em headlong on ye down the hill;
Then when he hunted ye, like Britain-foxes,
More by the scent than sight; then did I see
These valiant and approved men of Britain,
Like boding owls, creep into tods of ivy,
And hoot their fears to one another nightly.
Nen. And what did you then, Caratach ?
Car. I fled too;
But not so fast,-your jewel had been lost then,
Young Hengo there; he trash'd me, Nennius:
For, when your fears out-run him, then stepp'd I,
And in the head of all the Roman's fury
Took him, and with my tough belt to my back
I buckled him; behind him, my sure shield;
And then I follow'd. If I say I fought
Five times in bringing off this bud of Britain,
I lie not, Nennius. Neither had you heard
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