[The Decemvirs pause a space, the while their leader, Appius Claudius, addresses the assembled citizens.
Appius. Ye Roman citizens! Unto our ears
Murmurings hath arrived laden with strife;
And though this day ye have protested loud
Your loyalty, and hailed us with acclaim,
Ye seem but ill-content. This must not be.
We have been lenient to every class—
What ye demand in reason ye receive.
Ye called for written laws, and lo! they hang
Within the Forum that all eyes may read.
Yet, mark ye! Read not only, but obey,
Else blood shall pour in torrents on these stones.
[Low, angry murmur.
What! would ye show your teeth, ye nobles brave,
Would bare your fangs, O ye plebeian dogs!
Your teeth are drawn, patricians, and your fangs
Are dull, indeed, ye curs!
[A hissing protest.
What, open schism?
Ho, lictors, strike! Ah! would ye calmer grow?
Lictors, enough! Now must we on. Our time
Is pressing.
[As he is on the point of departing with his colleagues, his gaze is arrested by the passing of a girl, clad all in white, attended by her nurse, through the Forum.
(To a companion.) Now, by the ghost of Ixion, behold
Yon perfect vision of most perfect beauty.
Enchanting grace! Exquisite featuring!
Youth lightly shadowed by young womanhood!
My passions, Oppius, are all awake.
Aflame and spreading fast! Why, I would burn
All Rome to own her, touch her, feel her near;
I would receive the curses of the gods,
Be hurled to lowest Hades, and endure
The tortures set for Tantalus himself
If I might call her mine. Her kiss would prove
Sufficient food for me, her liquid eyes
Would quench my thirst if I should look within
And see the tears or draw the starry light
Into my soul! O, Appius, ye are stricken!
Oppius. Peace, peace, mine Appius, the maid is gone—
Thy looks are wild, thy features are convulsed
With passion.
1st Cit. See, Hortensius, yon man?
What ails him? Like a madman is his gaze,
And horrid is his flaming countenance.
Oppius. Come, brother, come, my colleague, let's away.
Appius. Hands off, O, foolish man, for I am dead
To protest. I have been by lightning stricken.
Oppius. It is, indeed, too passionate to be
The wound from Eros' feathered shaft.
Appius (groaning). Ah! God!
Where has she gone? I can not see her face
Nor matchless form within the dreary crowd,
Women I spy in plenty. What a mob
Of uncouth shapes and homely featuring
These females are! She was a Cynthia,
And all beside her, hideous and bold
Bacchantes. I'll a lictor straight despatch,
To seize on her, for she belongs to me.
Oppius. Nay, fool! Rash fool! Thou art not Jupiter
In power, that thou darest thus to seize,
In open daylight, objects of thy lust,
When they are daughters of free citizens.
Some shadow of excuse must herald such
Bold actions, lest the rabble rise in arms,
As in the days of fair Lucretia!
Thou canst presume, and yet in thy presumption
Play the sly part of virtue, ay, and justice,
Nor seem a mad and bigoted abductor.
I know the maid; a blameless child of one
Virginius, a soldier and a pleb.
Wait, wait, and on the morrow form thy plans,
But for this moment let the matter rest,
If thou art prudent. Come, let's on; the mob
Follows thy gaze, noting thy steadfast look.
Appius. Speed morrow then. For I am now no better
Than madman; I, who hold the whole of Rome
Under my thumb, am raving only for
Nor heaven nor earth, nor power, nay, nor fame,
But for the captivation of a maid—
But for Virginia. Onward, let us on!
I'll march into the grim, gray gates of eve
And meet the morrow ere it hath arisen,
Tear down the portals of the night and force
My way into the chamber where the morn
Dozes, a lovely slothful soul of hope,
And seizing on her, madly I'll demand
Virginia! [Exeunt.
Scene II—A Street in Rome.
Enter Marius and Horatius, two patricians.