Reg. A benefit? O savage ignorance! is it a benefit To lie, elope, deceive, and be a villain?

A benefit?

Ham. What! not when life itself, when all's at stake? Know'st thou my countrymen prepare thee tortures That shock imagination but to think of? Thou wilt be mangled, butcher'd, rack'd, impal'd. Does not thy nature shrink?

Reg. (smiling at his threats.) Hamilcar! no. Dost thou not know the Roman genius better? We live on honour—'tis our food, our life. The motive, and the measure of our deeds! We look on death as on a common object; The tongue nor faulters, nor the cheek turns pale, Nor the calm eye is mov'd at sight of him: We court, and we embrace him undismay'd; We smile at tortures if they lead to glory, And only cowardice and guilt appal us.

Ham. Fine sophistry! the valour of the tongue, The heart disclaims it; leave this pomp of words, And cease dissembling with a friend like me. I know that life is dear to all who live, That death is dreadful,—yes, and must be fear'd, E'en by the frozen apathists of Rome.

Reg. Did I fear death when on Bagrada's banks I fac'd and slew the formidable serpent That made your boldest Africans recoil, And shrink with horror, though the monster liv'd A native inmate of their own parch'd deserts? Did I fear death before the gates of Adis?— Ask Bostar, or let Asdrubal confess.

Ham. Or shall I rather of Xantippus ask, Who dar'd to undeceive deluded Rome, And prove this vaunter not invincible? 'Tis even said, in Africa I mean, He made a prisoner of this demigod.— Did we not triumph then?

Reg. Vain boaster! no. No Carthaginian conquer'd Regulus; Xantippus was a Greek—a brave one too: Yet what distinction did your Afric make Between the man who serv'd her, and her foe: I was the object of her open hate; He, of her secret, dark malignity. He durst not trust the nation he had sav'd; He knew, and therefore fear'd you.—Yes, he knew Where once you were oblig'd you ne'er forgave. Could you forgive at all, you'd rather pardon The man who hated, than the man who serv'd you. Xantippus found his ruin ere it reach'd him, Lurking behind your honours and rewards; Found it in your feign'd courtesies and fawnings. When vice intends to strike a master stroke, Its veil is smiles, its language protestations. The Spartan's merit threaten'd, but his service Compell'd his ruin.—Both you could not pardon.

Vain boaster! no.

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