Barce. Why, what a strange, fantastic land is this! This love of glory's the disease of Rome; It makes her mad, it is a wild delirium, An universal and contagious frenzy; It preys on all, it spares nor sex nor age: The Consul envies Regulus his chains— He, not less mad, contemns his life and freedom— The daughter glories in the father's ruin— And Publius, more distracted than the rest, Resigns the object that his soul adores, For this vain phantom, for this empty glory. This may be virtue; but I thank the gods, The soul of Barce's not a Roman soul. Manlius Licinius Lic. Rome will not suffer Regulus to go. Man. I thought the Consul and the Senators Had been a part of Rome. Lic. I grant they are— But still the people are the greater part. I grant they are— Man. The greater, not the wiser. Lic. The less cruel.—— Full of esteem and gratitude to Regulus, We would preserve his life. The less cruel. —— Man. And we his honour. And we his honour. Lic. His honour!—— —— Man. Yes. Time presses. Words are vain. Make way there—clear the passage. Lic. On your lives, Stir not a man. On your lives,
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