Pub. Alas! my father, if thou ever lov'dst me, Refuse me not the mournful consolation To pay the last sad offices of duty I e'er can show thee.—— —— Reg. No!—thou canst fulfil Thy duty to thy father in a way More grateful to him: I must strait embark. Be it meanwhile thy pious care to keep My lov'd Attilia from a sight, I fear, Would rend her gentle heart.—Her tears, my son, Would dim the glories of thy father's triumph. Her sinking spirits are subdu'd by grief. And should her sorrows pass the bounds of reason, Publius, have pity on her tender age, Compassionate the weakness of her sex; We must not hope to find in her soft soul The strong exertion of a manly courage.—— Support her fainting spirit, and instruct her, By thy example, how a Roman ought To bear misfortune. Oh, indulge her weakness! And be to her the father she will lose. I leave my daughter to thee—I do more—— I leave to thee the conduct of—thyself. —Ah, Publius! I perceive thy courage fails— I see the quivering lip, the starting tear:— That lip, that tear calls down my mounting soul. Resume thyself—Oh, do not blast my hope! Yes—I'm compos'd—thou wilt not mock my age— Thou art—thou art a Roman—and my son. No!—thou canst fulfil —— —— Pub. And is he gone?—now be thyself, my soul— Hard is the conflict, but the triumph glorious. Yes.—I must conquer these too tender feelings; The blood that fills these veins demands it of me; My father's great example too requires it. Forgive me Rome, and glory, if I yielded To nature's strong attack:—I must subdue it. Now, Regulus, I feel I am thy son. Attilia Barce At. My brother, I'm distracted, wild with fear— Tell me, O tell me, what I dread to know— Is it then true?—I cannot speak—my father? Barce. May we believe the fatal news? Pub. Yes, Barce, It is determin'd. Regulus must go. Yes, Barce, At. Immortal Powers!—What say'st thou?
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