Or thy gay smile and converse rendered sweeter,— When death seemed certain, only uttered "BROTHER!” Mal. Ad. By these tears, I can! O brother! from this very hour, a new, My heart, my soul, my sword, are thine forever. III. 184. BRUTUS AND TITUS. RUTUS. Well, Titus, speak; how is it with thee now? Wait till the tempèst were quite overblown, Looked down and listened to what we were saying: My son, my Titus! is all well again? Titus. So well, that saying how must make it nothing: For so my heart, with powerful throbs, persuades me That were, my lord, to thank you home-to die And that, for Titus, too, would be most happy. Brutus. How's that, my son? would death for thee be happy? Titus. Most certain, Sir; for in my grave I 'scape All those affronts which I, in life, must look for; All those reproaches which the eyes, the fingers, Each single scorn would be far worse than dying. Groans and convulsions, and discolored faces, Yes, Sir; I call the powers of heaven to witness, Brutus. Thou perfect glory of the Junian race! I swear, the gods have doomed thee to the grave. Bares his sad head, and passes sentence on thee. Shall never see thee more! Titus. Why art thou moved thus? Alas! my lord, Why am I worth thy sorrow? Why should the godlike Brutus shake to doom me? The gods will have it so. Brutus. They will, my Titus; Nor heaven nor earth can have it otherwise. Methinks I see the very hand of Jove 'Tis fixed; O, therefore let not fancy dupe thee! Of gods or men to save thee from the ax. Titus. The ax! O Heaven! must I, then, fall so basely? What! shall I perish by the common hangman? Brutus. If thou deny me this, thou givest me nothing. Yes, Titus, since the gods have so decreed That I must lose thee, I will take the advantage Without a groan, without one pitying tear (If that the gods can hold me to my purpose), To make my justice quite transcend example. Titus. Scourged like a bondman! Ha! a beaten slave! But I deserve it all: yet, here I fail ; The image of this suffering quite unmans me. O Sir! O Brutus! must I call you father, Yet have no token of your tenderness- Of cruel rigor? To behold me, too— To sit, unmoved, and see me whipped to death- Ah, Sir, why should you make my heart suspect Brutus. Think that I love thee, by my present passion, By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here; These sighs, that twitch the věry strings of life; Nor shake my solid virtue from her point, Titus. O, rise, thou vīölated majesty! Nay, all ye lictors, slaves, and common hangmen LEE. NATHANIEL LEE, an English dramatic writer, was born in Hertfordshire in 1651. He received a classical education at Westminster school, and at Trinity College, Cambridge. He tried the stage both as an actor and author; was four years in bedlam from wild insanity; but recovered his reason, resumed his labors as a dramatist, and though subject to fits of partial derangement, continued to write till the end of his life. He was the author of eleven tragedies, besides assisting Dryden in the composition of "Edipus" and "The Duke of Guise." His best tragedies are the "Rival Queens," "Mithridates," "Theodosius," and Lucius Junius Brutus." He possessed no small degree of the fire of genius, excelling in tenderness and genuine passion; but his style often degenerates into bombast and extravagant phrensy, in part caused by his mental malady. He died in London on the 6th of April, 1692. Hart. And not her mind? Oh, dirèst wreck of all! Theo. 'Tis Heaven's infliction; let us call it so; Give it no other name. Eleanora. Nay, do not thus despair; when she behōlds us, She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing, Be gradually restored Alice. Let me go to her. Theo. Nay, forbear, I pray thee; I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman, Orra. Come back, come back! the fierce and fiery light! Theo. Yes; twice I've heard already Their matin sound. Look up to the blue sky- Orra. Aye, so it is; day takes his daily turns, Like whitened billows on a gloomy sea. Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dark, And will-o'-the wisp his dancing taper light," They will not come again. [Bending her ear to the ground. Hark, hark! aye, hark! They are all there: I hear their hollow sound Full many a fathom down. Theo. Be still, poor troubled soul! they'll ne'er return They are forever gone. Be well assured Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home, Orra. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear returned. |