would burn All Rome to own her, touch her, feel her near; I would receive the curses of the gods, Be hurled to lowest Hades, and endure The tortures set for Tantalus himself If I might call her mine. Her kiss would prove Sufficient food for me, her liquid eyes Would quench my thirst if I should look within And see the tears or draw the starry light Into my soul! O, Appius, ye are stricken! Oppius. Peace, peace, mine Appius, the maid is gone— Thy looks are wild, thy features are convulsed[4] With passion. 1st Cit. See, Hortensius, yon man? What ails him? Like a madman is his gaze, And horrid is his flaming countenance. Oppius. Come, brother, come, my colleague, let's away. Appius. Hands off, O, foolish man, for I am dead To protest. I have been by lightning stricken. Oppius. It is, indeed, too passionate to be The wound from Eros' feathered shaft. Appius (groaning). Ah! God! Where has she gone? I can not see her face Nor matchless form within the dreary crowd, Women I spy in plenty. What a mob Of uncouth shapes and homely featuring These females are! She was a Cynthia, And all beside her, hideous and bold Bacchantes. I'll a lictor straight despatch, To seize on her, for she belongs to me. Oppius. Nay, fool! Rash fool! Thou art not Jupiter In power, that thou darest thus to seize, In open daylight, objects of thy lust, When they are daughters of free citizens. Some shadow of excuse must herald such Bold actions, lest the rabble rise in arms, As in the days of fair Lucretia! Thou canst presume, and yet in thy presumption Play the sly part of virtue, ay, and justice, Nor seem a mad and bigoted abductor. I know the maid; a blameless child of one Virginius, a soldier and a pleb. Wait, wait, and on the morrow form thy plans, But for this moment let the matter rest,[5] If thou art prudent. Come, let's on; the mob Follows thy gaze, noting thy steadfast look. Appius. Speed morrow then. For I am now no better Than madman; I, who hold the whole of Rome Under my thumb, am raving only for Nor heaven nor earth, nor power, nay, nor fame, But for the captivation of a maid— But for Virginia. Onward, let us on! I'll march into the grim, gray gates of eve And meet the morrow ere it hath arisen, Tear down the portals of the night and force My way into the chamber where the morn Dozes, a lovely slothful soul of hope, And seizing on her, madly I'll demand Virginia!      [Exeunt.

[4]

It is, indeed, too passionate to be

 Ah! God!

[5]

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