АСТ І.

MARCUS. DECIUS. JUBA.

SEMPRONIUS. SYPHAX. JUNIUS.

TITUS.

MARCIA.

LUCIA.

Ye gods, what havock does ambition make
Among your works!

Mar. Thy steady temper, Porcius.
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy:
I'm tortur'd, even to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he's nam'd,
Pharsalia rises to my view; I see

The insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field
Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drenched in
slaughter.

O Porcius, is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious great-

ness!

And mix'd with too much borror to be envied.
How does the lustre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant bright-

ness!

His suff'rings shine, and spread a glory round him:

Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause

Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.

Mar. Who knows not this? But what can Cato do

Against a world, a base, degenerate world,

That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæsar?

Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms

A poor epitome of Roman greatness,

And cover'd with Numidian guards, directs

A feeble army and an empty senate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.

By heavens! such virtues, joined with such suc

cess,

Distract my very soul: our father's fortuné

Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.

.

Par. Remember what our father oft has told us;

The ways of heaven are dark and intricate;
Our understanding traces them in vain;
Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search,
Nor sees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confusion ends.

Mar. These are suggestions of a mind at ease:
O Porcius, didst thou taste but half the griefs
That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk thus
calmly.

Passion unpitied and successless love
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind,-

I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble,
And speak a language foreign to my heart.
Good morrow, Porcius! Let us crce em-
brace,

Once more embrace, whilst yet we both are free:

To-morrow, should we thus express our friendship,

Each might receive a slave into his arms. This sun, perhaps, this morning's sun's the last

That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty.

Por. My father has this morning call'd together

His little Roman senate,

The leavings of Pharsalia-to consult

If yet he can oppose the mighty torrent

That bears down Rome and all her gods before

thy rival:

But I must hide it; for I know thy temper.-
Now, Marcus, now thy virtue's on the proof:

Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve,

And call up all thy father in thy soul:
To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart
On this weak side, where most Our

fails,

Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son.

nature

Mar. Alas! the counsel which I cannot take, Instead of healing, but upbraids my weak

ness.

Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost
In high ambition, and a thirst of greatness!
'Tis second life, that grows into the soul,
Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse:
I feel it here: my resolution melts-
Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince:
He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her:
But still the smother'd fondness burns within
him:

The sense of honour and desire of fame
Drive the big passion back into his heart.
What! shall an African, shall Juba's heir,
Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman soul?

Mar. No more, no more! your words leave stings behind 'em.

Whene'er did Juba, or did Porcius, shew
A virtue that has cast me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour!
Por. O Marcus! did I know the way to

ease

Thy troubled heart, and n it'gate thy pains

And make even Cæsar tremble at the head
Of armies flush'd with conquest. O my Por.

cius!

Could I but call that wondrous man my father,
Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious
To thy friend's vows, I might be bless'd in-
deed.

Por. Alas! Sempronius, wouldst thou talk of love To Marcia, whilst her father's life's in danger? Thou might'st as well court the pale trembling vestal,

When she beholds the holy flame expiring.

Sem. The more I see the wonders of thy race, The more I'm charm'd. Thou must take heed, my Porcius;

The world has all its eyes on Cato's son:
Thy father's merit sets thee up to view,
And shows thee in the fairest point of light,
To make thy virtues, or thy faults conspi-

Is call'd together? Gods, thou must be cautious:
Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern

Our frauds, unless they're covered thick with art.
Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax: I'll conceal
My thoughts in passion: 'tis the surest way:
I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country,
And mouth at Cæsar, till I shake the senate.
Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device,

This headstrong youth, and make him spurn as Cato.

The time is short; Cæsar comes rushing on us;But hold!-young Juba sees me, and approaches. Enter JUBA.

Juba. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone.
I have observ'd of late thy looks are fallen,
O'ercast with gloomy cares and discontent:
Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me,
What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in
frowns,

And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince?
Syph. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts,
Nor carry smiles and sunshine in my face,
When discontent sits heavy at my heart;

I have not yet so much the Roman in me.

Juba. Why dost thou cast out such ungenerous terms

Against

these wondrous sovereigns of the world?

Dost thou not see mankind fall down before 'em,

And own the force of their superior virtue ?

Syph. Gods! where's the worth that sets this people up

Above your own Numidia's tawny sons?
Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow?
Or flies the javelin swifter to its mark,
Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm?
Who, like our active African, instructs

The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand?
Or guides in troops the embattled elephant,
Loaden with war? These, these are arts, my

prince,

In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome. Juba. These all are virtues of a

meaner

What are these wondrous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and this smooth behaviour,
That render men thus tractable and tame?
Are they not only to disguise our passions,

earnest,

Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury.

Syph. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs,

And teach the wily African deceit.

Sem. Once more, be sure to try thy skill on
Juba.

Meanwhile, I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers,
Inflame the mutiny, and, underhand,

Blow up their discontents, till they break out,
Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato.
Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste.
O think, what anxious moments pass between
The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods;
It is a dreadful interval of time,

Fill'd up with horrer all, and big with death;
Destruction hangs on every word we speak,
On every thought, till the concluding stroke
Determines all, and closes our design.

Syph. I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason

[Exi.

Amidst the running stream he slakes his thirst, Toils all the day, and, at the

approach of him

night,
On the first friendly bank he throws
down,

Or rests his head upon a rock till morn;
Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted game,
And if, the following day, he chance to find
A new repast, or an untasted spring,
Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.

Juba. Thy prejudice, Syphax, won't discern
What virtues grow from ignorance, and choice;
Nor how the hero differs from the brute.
But, grant that others could with equal glory,
Look down on pleasures and the baits of

sense,

Where shall we find the man that bears affliction,

Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
How does he rise against a load of woes.

And thank the gods that throw the weight upon him?

Syph. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul;

I think, the Romans call it stoicism.

Had not your royal father thought so highly
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause,
He had not fallen, by a slave's hand, inglorious;
Nor would his slaughter'd army now have

lain

I've hitherto permitted it to rave,

And talk at large: but learn to keep it in, Lest it should take more freedom than I'll give it.

Syph. Yet hear me, prince, tho' hard to conquer love,

'Tis easy to divert and break its force:
Absence might cure it, or a second mistress
Light up another flame, and put out this.
The glowing dames of Zamba's royal court
Have faces flush'd with more exalted charms;
The sun that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and colour in their cheeks:
Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon for-
get

The pale, unripen'd beauties of the north.

Juba. 'Tis not a set of features, nor complexion, The tincture of a skin, that I admire: Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense. The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex: True, she is fair,-O how divinely fair! But still the lovely maid improves her charms With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom, And sanctity of manners. Cato's soul Shines out in every thing she acts or speaks.

The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue, And men approv'd of by the gods and Cato.

Juba. That Juba may deserve thy pious cares, I'll gaze for ever on thy godlike father; Transplanting, one by one, into my life His bright perfections, till I shine like him.

Mar. My father never at a time like this Would lay out his great soul in words, and waste Such precious moments.

Juba. Thy reproofs are just,

Thou virtuous maid! I'll hasten to my troops,
And fire their languid souls with Cato's virtue.
If e'er I lead them to the field, when all
The war shall stand rang'd in its just array
And dreadful pomp, then will I think on thee,-
O lovely maid!-then will I think on thee;
And in the shock of charging hosts, remember
What glorious deeds should grace the man who
hopes
For Marcia's love.

[Exit.