_Reg._ Gods! gods! on what vile principles they reason! Can guilt in Carthage palliate guilt in Rome, Or vice in one absolve it in another? Ah! who hereafter shall be criminal, If precedents are us'd to justify The blackest crimes. _Pub._ Th' infatuated people Have called the augurs to the sacred fane, There to determine this momentous point. _Reg._ I have no need of _oracles_, my son; _Honour's_ the oracle of honest men. I gave my promise, which I will observe With most religious strictness. Rome, 'tis true, Had power to choose the peace, or change of slaves; But whether Regulus return, or not, Is _his_ concern, not the concern of _Rome_. _That_ was a public, _this_ a private care. Publius! thy father is not what he was; _I_ am the slave of _Carthage_, nor has Rome Power to dispose of captives not her own. Guards! let us to the port.--Farewell, my friend. _Man._ Let me entreat thee stay; for shouldst thou go To stem this tumult of the populace, They will by force detain thee: then, alas! Both Regulus and Rome must break their faith. _Reg._ What! must I then remain? _Man._ No, Regulus, I will not check thy great career of glory: Thou shalt depart; meanwhile, I'll try to calm This wild tumultuous uproar of the people. The consular authority shall still them. _Reg._ Thy virtue is my safeguard----but---- _Man._ Enough---- _I_ know _thy_ honour, and trust thou to _mine_. I am a _Roman_, and I feel some sparks Of Regulus's virtue in my breast. Though fate denies me thy illustrious chains, I will at least endeavour to _deserve_ them. [_Exit._ _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. _Reg._ Do not sigh---- One sigh will check the progress of thy glory. _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. [_Exeunt severally._ 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. _Man._ What would the daughter of my noble friend?