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Cat. Banished from Rome! What's "banished," but set free From daily contact of the things I loathe ?

"Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
Banished? I thank you for't.

It breaks my chain.
I held some slack allegiance till this hour-
But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords;
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.

But here I stand and scoff you: here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face.

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Your Consul's merciful.-For this all thanks.

He dares not touch a hair of Catiline!

Consul. Lictors, now drive the traitor from the temple!
Cat. Traitor !"I go--but I return.

Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs,

To stir a fever in the blood of age,

Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.

This--trial!

This day's the birth of sorrows! This hour's work

Will breed proscriptions.- -Look to your hearths, my lords! For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods,

Shapes hot from Tartarus--all shames and crimes;

Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ;
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till Anarchy come down on you like night,
And Massacre seal Rome's eternal grave!

Consul. Go, enemy and parricide, from Rome!
Cat. It shall be so!- When Catiline comes again,
Your grandeur shall be base, and clowns shall sit
In scorn upon those chairs ;--Your palaces
Shall see the soldier's revels, and your wealth
Shall go to deck his menial, or his horse.
Then Cicero, and his tools, shall pay me blood-
And such of you as cannot find the grace..
To die with swords in your right hands, shall feel
The life, life worse than death, of trampled slaves!
Cic. Expel him, lictors! Clear the senate house!
Cat. I go, but not to leap the gulf alone:

I go; but when I come-'twill be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake-rolling back

In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well t
You build my funeral pile; but your best blood
Shall quench its flame.-Back, slaves! [To the Lictors.]
I will return!

XIII. SIR EDWARD MORTIMER AND WILFORD.-Colman.
.-What am I to say.

Sir E. Wilford, approach me.—

For aiming at your life?-Do you not scorn me,

Despise me for it?

Wilf.
Sir E.

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I! Oh, Sir!

You must;

Indeed, indeed, Sir,

For I am singled from the herd of men,

A vile, heart-broken wretch!

Wilf.

You deeply wrong yourself. Your equal's love,

The poor man's prayer, the orphan's tear of gratitude,
All follow you :-and I--I owe you all!

I am most bound to bless you.

Sir E.

Mark me, Wilford:

I know the value of the orphan's tear,

The poor man's prayer, respect from the respected,

I feel, to merit these and to obtain them,

Is to taste here below, that thrilling cordial
Which the remunerating Angel draws
From the eternal fountain of delight,

To pour on blessed souls that enter Heaven.
I feel this :-I!-How must my nature, then,
Revolt at him who seeks to stain his hand

In human blood?-and yet, it seems, this day

I sought your life.-Oh! I have suffered madness!
None know my tortures,-pangs!-But I can end them;
End them as far as appertains to thee.-

I have resolved it.-Fearful struggles tear me:

But I have pondered on't,—and I must trust thee.
Wilf. Your confidence shall not be

You must swear.

Sir E.
Wilf. Swear, Sir!—will nothing but an oath, then-
Sir E.

May all the ills that wait on frail humanity
Be doubled on your head, if you disclose
My fatal secret! May your body turn
Most lazar-like and loathsome; and your

mind

Listen.

More loathsome than your body! May those fiends,
Who strangle babes for very wantonness,

Shrink back, and shudder at your monstrous crimes,
And, shrinking, curse you! Palsies strike your youth!
And the sharp terrors of a guilty mind

Poison your aged days! while all your nights,
As on the earth you lay your houseless head,
Out-horror horror! May you quit the world
Abhorred, self-hated, hopeless for the next,
Your life a burden, and your death a fear!
Wilf. For mercy's sake, forbear! you terrify me!
Sir E. Hope this may fall upon thee:-
By every attribute which heaven or earth
Can lend, to bind and strengthen conjuration,

If thou betrayest me.

-Swear thou hopest it,

Wilf
Sir E.

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Wilf. [After a pause.] I swear, by all the ties that bind a man, Divine or human, -never to divulge!

Sir E. Remember, you have sought this secret:-Yes, Extorted it. I have not thrust it on you.

'Tis big with danger to you; and to me,

While I prepare to speak, torment unutterable.
Know, Wilford, that- -O, torture!

Dearest sir!
Wilf.
Collect yourself. This shakes you horribly:
You had this trembling, it is scarce a week,
At Madam Helen's.

Sir E.

Wilf. Her uncle!

There it is- Her uncle

Sir E. Him. She knows it not;-none know it.You are the first ordained to hear me say,

I am- -his murderer.

Wilf.

Sir E.

O horror!

His assassin.

-I am choked!

Wilf. What! you that-mur-the murderer

Sir E. Honour, thou blood-stained god! at whose red altar Sit war and homicide: O! to what madness

Will insult drive thy votaries! In truth,

In the world's range, there does not breathe a man

Whose brutal nature I more strove to soothe

With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy,

Than his who fell by me. But he disgraced me,

Stained me--Oh, death and shame!-the world looked on,
And saw this sinewy savage strike me down,
Rain blows upon me, drag me to and fro,
On the base earth, like carrion. Desperation,
In every fibre of my frame, cried Vengeance!
I left the room which he had quitted: Chance,
(Curse on the chance!) while boiling with my wrongs,
Thrust me against him, darkling, in the street-

I stabbed him to the heart. -and my oppressor
Rolled lifeless, at my foot.
Wilf.
Oh! mercy on me!
How could this deed be covered?

Sir E. Would you think it?

E'en at the moment when I gave the blow,
Butchered a fellow-creature in the dark,

I had all good men's love. But my disgrace,
And my opponent's death thus linked with it,

Demanded notice of the Magistracy.

They summoned me, as friend would summon friend,

To acts of import and communication.

We met and 'twas resolved, to stifle rumour,

To put me on my trial. No accuser,

No evidence appeared, to urge it on

"Twas meant to clear my fame.

-How clear it then?

How cover it?-you say.-Why, by a lie

Guilt's offspring, and its guard. I taught this breast,
Which truth once made her throne, to forge a lie,

This tongue to utter it;--rounded a tale,

Smooth as a seraph's song from Satan's mouth;

So well compacted, that the o'erthronged court
Disturbed cool Justice in her judgment-seat,
By shouting "Innocence!" ere I had finished.
The court enlarged me; and the giddy rabble
Bore me, in triumph, home. Ay!-look upon me.—
I know thy sight aches at me.

Wilf. Heaven forgive you!
Indeed I pity you.

Sir E. I disdain all pity.—

It may be wrong

I ask no consolation. Idle boy!

Think'st thou that this compulsive confidence
Was given to move thy pity?-Love of fame
(For still I cling to it) has urged me, thus
To quash thy curious mischief in its birth.
Hurt honour, in an evil, cursed hour,
Drove me to murder-lying; -'twould again!
My honesty,-sweet peace of mind,-all, all,
Are bartered for a name. I will maintain it.-
Should Slander whisper o'er my sepulchre,
And my soul's agency survive in death,
I could embody it with heaven's lightning,
And the hot shaft of my insulted spirit
Should strike the blaster of my memory

Dead, in the church-yard. Boy, I would not kill thee;
Thy rashness and discernment threatened danger!

To check them there was no way left but this

Save one-your death:-you shall not be my victim.

A

Wilf. My death! What, take my life?-My life! to prop

This empty honour?

Sir E. Empty? Grovelling fool!

Wilf. I am your servant, Sir, child of your bounty,

And know my obligation. I have been

Too curious, haply: 'tis the fault of youth

I ne'er meant injury: if it would serve you,
I would lay down my life; I'd give it freely:
Could you then have the heart to rob me of it?
You could not-should not.

Sir E.

Wilf

Sir E.

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Wilf. Some hours ago you durst not. Passion moved you, Reflection interposed, and held your arm.

But, should reflection prompt you to attempt it,
My innocence would give me strength to struggle,
And wrest the murderous weapon from your hand.
How would you look to find a peasant boy
Return the knife you levelled at his heart;
And ask you which in heaven would show the best,
A rich man's honour, or a poor man's honesty?

XIV. SCENE FROM THE TRAGEDY OF "ION."-Talfourd.
ADRASTUS on a couch asleep.

Enter ION, with a knife.

Ion. Why do I creep thus stealthily along

With trembling steps? Am I not armed by Heaven,
To execute its mandate on a king whom it hath doomed?
-He's smiling in his slumber,

As if some happy thought of innocent days

Played at his heart strings: must I scare it thence

With Death's sharp agony? He lies condemned

By the high judgment of supernal Powers,

And he shall know their sentence.-Wake, Adrastus!

Collect thy spirits and be strong to die!

Adras. Who dares disturb my rest? Guards! Soldiers! Recreants!

Where tarry ye? Why smite ye not to earth

This bold intruder? Ha! no weapon here!

What wouldst thou with me, ruffian?

Ion. I am none;

But a sad instrument in Jove's great hand,
To take thy life, long forfeited.-Prepare!
Thy hour is come!

Adras. Villains! does no one hear?

Ion. Vex not the closing minutes of thy being
With torturing hope or idle rage; thy guards.
Palsied with revelry, are scattered senseless.
While the most valiant of our Argive youths
Hold every passage by which human aid

Could reach thee. Present death is the award
Of Powers who watch above me-while I stand
To execute their sentence.

Adras. Thou! I know thee

The youth I spared this morning, in whose ear
I poured the secrets of my bosom. Kill me,
If thou dar'st do it; but bethink thee first
How the grim memory of thy thankless deed
Will haunt thee to the grave!

Ion. It is most true;

Thou spar'dst my life, and therefore do the gods
Ordain me to this office, lest thy fall

Seem the chance-forfeit of some single sin,
And not the great redress of Argos. Now-
Now, while I parley-spirits that have left,
Within this hour, their plague-tormented flesh
To rot untombed, glide by, and frown on me
Their slow avenger,-and the chamber swarms
With looks of Furies.--Yet a moment wait,
Ye dreadful prompters!If there is a friend,
Whom dying thou wouldst greet by word or token,
Speak thy last bidding.

Adras. I have none on earth.
If thou hast courage, end me!
Ion. Not one friend!

Most piteous doom!

Adras. Art melted?

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