sex's narrow limits— And I will dare—and mis'ry shall assist me— My father! I will be indeed thy daughter! The hero shall no more disdain his child; Attilia shall not be the only branch That yields dishonour to the parent tree.

Barce

Barce. Attilia! is it true that Regulus, In spite of senate, people, augurs, friends, And children, will depart?

At. Yes, it is true.

Yes, it is true.

Barce. Oh! what romantic madness!

At. You forget— Barce! the deeds of heroes claim respect.

You forget—

Barce. Dost thou approve a virtue which must lead To chains, to tortures, and to certain death?

At. Barce! those chains, those tortures, and that death, Will be his triumph.

Barce. Thou art pleas'd, Attilia: By heav'n thou dost exult in his destruction!

Thou art pleas'd, Attilia:

At. Ah! pitying powers.[Weeps.

[Weeps.

Barce. I do not comprehend thee.

I do not comprehend thee.

At. No, Barce, I believe it.—Why, how shouldst thou? If I mistake not, thou wast born in Carthage, In a barbarian land, where never child Was taught to triumph in a father's chains.

Barce. Yet thou dost weep—thy tears at least are honest, For they refuse to share thy tongue's deceit; They speak the genuine language of affliction, And tell the sorrows that oppress thy soul.

At. Grief, that dissolves in tears, relieves the heart. When congregated vapours melt in rain, The sky is calm'd, and all's serene again.

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