_Lic._ Ah! think, Attilia, who that Consul is, Manlius, thy father's rival, and his foe: His ancient rival, and his foe profess'd: To hope in him, my fair, were fond delusion. _At._ Yet though his rival, Manlius is a _Roman_: Nor will he think of private enmities, Weigh'd in the balance with the good of Rome: Let me at least make trial of his honour. _Lic._ Be it so, my fair! but elsewhere make thy suit; Let not the Consul meet Attilia _here_, Confounded with the refuse of the people. _At._ Yes, I will see him _here_, e'en _here_, Licinius. Let _Manlius_ blush, not _me_: _here_ will I speak, _Here_ shall he answer me. _Lic._ Behold he comes. _At._ Do thou retire. _Lic._ O bless me with a look, One parting look at least. _At._ Know, my Licinius, That at this moment I am all the _daughter_, The filial feelings now possess my soul, And other passions find no entrance there. _Lic._ O sweet, yet powerful influence of virtue, That charms though cruel, though unkind subdues, And what was love exalts to admiration! Yes, 'tis the privilege of souls like thine To conquer most when least they aim at conquest. Yet, ah! vouchsafe to think upon Licinius, Nor fear to rob thy father of his due; For surely virtue and the gods approve Unwearied constancy and spotless love. [_Exit_ LICINIUS. _Enter_ MANLIUS. _At._ Ah! Manlius, stay, a moment stay, and hear me. _Man._ I did not think to meet thee here, Attilia; The place so little worthy of the guest. _At._ It would, indeed, have ill become Attilia, While still her father was a Roman citizen; But for the daughter of a slave to Carthage, It surely is most fitting. _Man._ Say, Attilia, What is the purpose of thy coming hither! _At._ What is the purpose, patience, pitying heaven! Tell me, how long, to Rome's eternal shame, To fill with horror all the wond'ring world, My father still must groan in Punic chains, And waste the tedious hours in cruel bondage? Days follow days, and years to years succeed, And Rome forgets her hero, is content That Regulus be a forgotten slave. What is his crime? is it that he preferr'd His country's profit to his children's good? Is it th' unshaken firmness of his soul, Just, uncorrupt, and, boasting, let me speak it, Poor in the highest dignities of Rome? O glorious poverty! illustrious crime! _Man._ But know, Attilia----