_At._ Can the friend of Regulus Advise his daughter not to mourn his fate? How cold, alas! is friendship when compar'd To ties of blood--to nature's powerful impulse! Yes--she asserts her empire in my soul, 'Tis Nature pleads--she will--she must be heard; With warm, resistless eloquence she pleads.-- Ah, thou art soften'd!--see--the Consul yields-- The feelings triumph--tenderness prevails-- The Roman is subdued--the daughter conquers! [_Catching hold of his robe._ _Man._ Ah, hold me not!--I must not, cannot stay, The softness of thy sorrow is contagious; I, too, may feel when I should only reason. I dare not hear thee--Regulus and Rome, The patriot and the friend--all, all forbid it. [_Breaks from her, and exit._ _At._ O feeble grasp!--and is he gone, quite gone? Hold, hold thy empire, Reason, firmly hold it, Or rather quit at once thy feeble throne, Since thou but serv'st to show me what I've lost, To heighten all the horrors that await me; To summon up a wild distracted crowd Of fatal images, to shake my soul, To scare sweet peace, and banish hope itself. Farewell! delusive dreams of joy, farewell! Come, fell Despair! thou pale-ey'd spectre, come, For thou shalt be Attilia's inmate now, And thou shalt grow, and twine about her heart, And she shall be so much enamour'd of thee, The pageant Pleasure ne'er shall interpose Her gaudy presence to divide you more. [_Stands in an attitude of silent grief._ _Enter_ LICINIUS. _Lic._ At length I've found thee--ah, my charming maid! How have I sought thee out with anxious fondness! Alas! she hears me not.----My best Attilia! Ah! grief oppresses every gentle sense. Still, still she hears not----'tis Licinius speaks, He comes to soothe the anguish of thy spirit, And hush thy tender sorrows into peace. _At._ Who's he that dares assume the voice of love, And comes unbidden to these dreary haunts? Steals on the sacred treasury of woe, And breaks the league Despair and I have made? _Lic._ 'Tis one who comes the messenger of heav'n, To talk of peace, of comfort, and of joy. _At._ Didst thou not mock me with the sound of joy? Thou little know'st the anguish of my soul, If thou believ'st I ever can again, So long the wretched sport of angry Fortune, Admit delusive hope to my sad bosom. No----I abjure the flatterer and her train. Let those, who ne'er have been like me deceiv'd, Embrace the fair fantastic sycophant-- For I, alas! am wedded to despair, And will not hear the sound of comfort more. _Lic._ Cease, cease, my love, this tender voice of woe, Though softer than the dying cygnet's plaint: She ever chants her most melodious strain When death and sorrow harmonise her note.