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MARCIA.

Alas! 'tis not the voice Of one who sleeps ! 'tis agonizing pain, "Tis death is in that found

Re-enter PORTIUS.
PORTIUS.

O sight of woe!
O Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass !
Cato is fall’n upon his fword-

LUCIUS.

O Portius,
Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale,
And let us guess the rest.

PORTIUS.
I 've rais'd him

up, And plac'd him in his chair, where, pale and faint, He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him, Demands to see his friends. His weeping servants, Obsequious to his orders, bear him hither. [The back Scene opens, and discovers CATO.

MARCIA.
O heaven, assist me in this dreadful hour
'To pay the last fad duties to my father !

JUBA.
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Cæsar!

LUCIUS. Now is Rome fall'n indeed ![CATO brought forward in bis cbair.

CATO,

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CA TO.

Here set me down Portius, come near me-are my friends embark’d? Can any thing be thought of for their service ? Whilft I yet live, let me not live in vain. -O Lucius, art thou here ?-Thou art too good! Let this our friendship live between our children ; Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia. Alas poor man, he weeps !—Marcia, my daughter - bend me forward ! Juba loves thee, Marcia. A Senator of Rome, while Rome surviv'd, Would not have match'd his daughter with a king, But Cæsar's arms have thrown down all distinction; Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman-I'm sick to death, when thall I

get

loose
From this vain world, th’abode of guilt and sorrow !
-And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in
On my departing fönl. Alas, I fear
I've been too hasty. Oye powers, that search
The heart of man, and weigh his innost thoughts,
If I have done amiss, impute it not !--
The best inay err, but you are good, ando , [Dies.

LUCIUS.
There fled the greatest soul that ever warm’d
A Roman breast. O Cato! O my friend !
Thy will shall be religiously observ’d.
But let us bear this awful corpfe to Cæsar,
And lay it in his fight, that it may

stand
A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath;
Cato, though dead, shall still protect his friends.
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From

1

From hence, let fierce contending nations know
What dire effects from civil discord flow,
Tis this that shakes our country with alarms,
And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms,
Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife,
And robs the guilty world of Cato's life.

[Exeunt Omnes.

END OF THE FIFTH ACT.

ЕРІ•

EPIL

OGUE

WRITTEN BY SIR SAMUEL GARTH.

Who would not liften when younglovers woo?
HAT fantastic we do

}
But die a maid, yet have the choice of two !
Ladies are often cruel to their coft:
To give you pain, themselves they punish most.
Vows of virginity should well be weighd;
Too oft they're cancel'd, though in convents made.
Would you revenge such rash resolves---you may
Be spiteful---and believe the thing we say,
We hate you when you're easily said nay.
How needless, if you knew us, were your fears !
Let love have eyes, and beauty will have ears.
Our hearts are form’d as you yourselves would chuse,
Too proud to ask, too humble to refuse :
We give to merit, and to wealth we fell :
He sighs with most success that settles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix:
'Tis best repenting in a coach and six.

Blame not our conduct, fince we but pursue Those lively lesions we have learnt from you, Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms, But wicked wealth usurps the power of charms.

Z 2

What

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What pains to get the gaudy thing you hate,
To fwell in show, and be a wretch in state!
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow;
Ev'n churches are no fan&tuaries now:
There golden idols all your vows receive,
She is no goddess that has nought to give.
Oh, may once more the hap age appear,
When words were artless, and the thoughts sincere;
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things,
And courts less coveted than groves and springs :
Love then shall only mourn when truth complains,
And constancy feel transport in its chains :
Sighs with success their own soft anguish tell,
And
eyes

shall utter what the lips conceal :
Virtue again to its bright station climb,
And beauty fear no enemy but time;
The fair shall listen to desert alone,
And every Lucia find a Cato's fon.

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