Cornets sounding a march. Enter Pages with javelins and targets. Massinissa and Jugurth; Massinissa’s beaver shut.
Mass. March to the palace.
So. Whate’er man thou art,
Of Libya thy fair arms speak, give heart
To amazed weakness; hear her, that for long time
Hath seen no wishèd light. Sophonisba, 10
A name for misery much known, ’tis she
Entreats of thy graced sword this only boon:—
Let me not kneel to Rome; for though no cause
Of mine deserves their hate, though Massinissa
Be ours to heart, yet Roman generals
Make proud their triumphs with whatever captives.
O ’tis a nation which from soul I fear,
As one well knowing the much-grounded hate
They bear to Asdrubal and Carthage blood;
Therefore with tears that wash thy feet, with hands 20
Unused to beg, I clasp thy manly knees:
O save me from their fetters and contempt,
Their proud insults and more than insolence!
Or, if it rest not in thy grace of breath
To grant such freedom, give me long-wish’d death;
For ’tis not now loath’d life that we do crave,—
Only an unshamed death and silent grave,
We will now deign to bend for.
Mass. Rarity!
[Massinissa disarms his head.
By thee and this right hand, thou shalt live free!
So. We cannot now be wretched.
Mass. Stay the sword! 30
Let slaughter cease; sounds soft as Leda’s breast
[Soft music.