And, if a weak old man be not deceiv'd, They will not shame that country. Yes, my friend, The love of virtue blazes in their souls. As yet these tender plants are immature, And ask the fostering hand of cultivation: Heav'n, in its wisdom, would not let their father Accomplish this great work.—To thee, my friend, The tender parent delegates the trust: Do not refuse a poor man's legacy; I do bequeath my orphans to thy love— If thou wilt kindly take them to thy bosom, Their loss will be repaid with usury. Oh, let the father owe his glory to thee, The children their protection!

I think I have fulfill'd

Man. Regulus, With grateful joy my heart accepts the trust: Oh, I will shield, with jealous tenderness, The precious blossoms from a blasting world. In me thy children shall possess a father, Though not as worthy, yet as fond as thee. The pride be mine to fill their youthful breasts With ev'ry virtue—'twill not cost me much: I shall have nought to teach, nor they to learn, But the great history of their god-like sire.

Regulus,

Reg. I will not hurt the grandeur of thy virtue, By paying thee so poor a thing as thanks. Now all is over, and I bless the gods, I've nothing more to do.

Publius

Pub. O Regulus!

O Regulus!

Reg. Say what has happened?

Pub. Rome is in a tumult— There's scarce a citizen but runs to arms— They will not let thee go.

Rome is in a tumult—

Reg. Is't possible? Can Rome so far forget her dignity As to desire this infamous exchange? I blush to think it!

Is't possible?

Pub. Ah! not so, my father. Rome cares not for the peace, nor for th' exchange; She only wills that Regulus shall stay.

Ah! not so, my father.

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