Reg. How is my country alter'd! how, alas, Is the great spirit of old Rome extinct! Restraint and force must now be put to use To make her virtuous. She must be compell'd To faith and honour.—Ah! what, Publius here? And dost thou leave so tamely to my friend The honour to assist me? Go, my boy, 'Twill make me more in love with chains and death, To owe them to a son.

Pub. I go, my father— I will, I will obey thee.

I go, my father—

Reg. Do not sigh—— One sigh will check the progress of thy glory.

Do not sigh

——

Pub. Yes, I will own the pangs of death itself Would be less cruel than these agonies: Yet do not frown austerely on thy son: His anguish is his virtue: if to conquer The feelings of my soul were easy to me, 'Twould be no merit. Do not then defraud The sacrifice I make thee of its worth.

Manlius

Attilia

At. (speaking as she enters.) Where is the Consul?— Where, oh, where is Manlius? I come to breathe the voice of mourning to him, I come to crave his mercy, to conjure him To whisper peace to my afflicted bosom, And heal the anguish of a wounded spirit.

Where, oh, where is Manlius?

Man. What would the daughter of my noble friend?

At. (kneeling.) If ever pity's sweet emotions touch'd thee,— If ever gentle love assail'd thy breast,— If ever virtuous friendship fir'd thy soul— By the dear names of husband and of parent— By all the soft, yet powerful ties of nature— If e'er thy lisping infants charm'd thine ear, And waken'd all the father in thy soul,— If e'er thou hop'st to have thy latter days Blest by their love, and sweeten'd by their duty— Oh, hear a kneeling, weeping, wretched daughter, Who begs a father's life!—nor hers alone, But Rome's—his country's father.

Man. Gentle maid! Oh, spare this soft, subduing eloquence!— Nay, rise. I shall forget I am a Roman— Forget the mighty debt I owe my country— Forget the fame and glory of thy father. I must conceal this weakness. 

Gentle maid!

At. (rises 

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