The curtain, rising, discovers a bondmaid in the center of a spacious court, filling her pitcher at the fountain. It is midday, and the light streams down from above, flooding the entire space with radiance. The woman sings in an undertone, as she turns to water the roses twined around the columns in the background. Enter Marcus Claudius. He approaches the maiden, leisurely. 

Marc. Ah! pretty one! Fortune has favored me! I enter in due time to proffer aid. Slave. Nay, shame on thee, a man free-born, to thus Address a bondmaid, when there is no need. Marc. Thy humble mien is fitting, girl, but I Am modest, and, thus far, will graciously Demean myself. Slave. Demean thyself, indeed! I only mocked thee, fool; thy proffered aid I scorn. Low-born plebeian, who art thou, To set thyself above a child of kings? Marc. (angrily). Ha! Have a care! Take heed! Thy saucy tongue Eludes thee, mischief hungry. Fairest slave, But for that very fairness which is thine, I'd have thee lashed by him who favors me! Slave (wheeling about in scorn). Who shelters, who supports, who uses thee, And for his own vile ends! Lends thee his brains,[12] His power and knowledge for thy petty, sly Returns. He, fierce and false; thou, mean and small; He, merciless; thou, only Marcus' friend—And both unscrupulous as Mercury. Marc. (furiously). Thou art too scathing in thy judgment, damsel! Slave. Nay, I am mild to what thou dost deserve. Marc. How darest thou, a slave, to judge me so? Slave. King Tarquin, called Superbus, or the Proud, He was mine ancestor. And I, alone Left of his line, in bondage languish. Thou,— What canst thou boast of? Of the blood of plebs, Yet lower e'en than they who gave thee birth; Despised of all, for thou art neither slave, Nor free; thou hangest slothlike on the skirts Of mighty men, that they may represent Thy cause—support, succor, and plead for thee, In gratitude for thy poor services. Avaunt! Fawner and client, touch me not!

Demean thyself, indeed!

[12]

[She spurns him when he would approach her, and haughtily departs. 

Marc. (gazing after her). Adieu, thou helpless scorner, chained despiser, Thy tongue hath sought to whip me sore—in vain. A client knows not shame nor injured pride. Nor is he haughty, for the blood of kings Heats not his veins. So Marcus, too, is low, Ready to stoop to aught, however base, To gain his ends. But triumph over triumphs! Marcus will issue forth the conqueror. Flushed with his victory, while other men Lie low and bite the dust because they clung To honor! He, clean void of conscience, sucks The sweets of life 

 Prev. P 10/46 next