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Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon forget
The pale, unripen'd beauties of the North.

Jub. 'Tis not a set of features, or 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 tow'rs above her sex :
True, she is fair, (Oh, 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,
While winning mildness and attractive smiles,
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace
Soften the rigour of her father's virtue.

Syph. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise!

But on my knees I beg you would consider

Jub. Hah! Syphax, is't not she-She moves this way:

And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter.

My heart beats thick~I pr'ythee, Syphax, leave me. Syph. Ten thousand curses fasten on them both! Now will the woman, with a single glance,

Undo what I've been lab'ring all this while.

[Exit Syphax.


Jub. Hail, charming maid! How does thy beauty



The face of war, and make ev'n horror smile!
At sight of thee my heart shakes off its sorrows;
I feel a dawn of joy break in upon me,

And for a while forget th' approach of Cæsar.

Mar. I should be griev'd, young prince, to think my presence

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Unbent your thoughts, and slacken'd 'em to arms, While, warm with slaughter, our victorious foe Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field.

Jub. Oh, Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns And gentle wishes follow me to battle!

The thought will give new vigour to my arm,
Add strength and weight to my descending sword,
And drive it in a tempest on the foe.

Mar. My pray'rs and wishes always shall attend The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue, And men approv'd of by the gods and Cato.

Jub. That Juba may deserve thy pious cares,
I'll gaze for ever on thy god-like 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.

Jub. 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.

Oh, 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 Juba.

Luc. Marcia, you're too severe;

How cou'd you chide the young good-natur'd prince,
And drive him from you with so stern an air,
A prince that loves and doats on you to death?
Mar. 'Tis therefore, Lucia, that I chid him from me.
His air, his voice, his looks, and honest soul,
Speak all so movingly in his behalf,

I dare not trust myself to hear him talk.

Luc. Why will you fight against so sweet a passion, And steel your heart to such a world of charms?

Mar. How, Lucia! wouldst thou have me sink away In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love, When ev'ry moment Cato's life's at stake? Cæsar comes arm'd with terror and revenge, And aims his thunder at my father's head. Should not the sad occasion swallow up My other cares, "and draw them all into it?" Luc. Why have not I this constancy of mind, Who have so many griefs to try its force? Sure, nature form'd me of her softest mould, Enfeebled all my soul with tender passions, And sunk me ev'n below my own weak sex : Pity and love, by turns, oppress my heart. Mar. Lucia, disburthen all thy cares on me, And let me share thy most retir'd distress. Tell me who raises up this conflict in thee?


Luc. I need not blush to name them, when I tell


They're Marcia's brothers, and the sons of Cato.

Mar. They both behold thee with their sister's eyes,. And often have reveal'd their passion to me.

"But tell me, whose address thou fav'rest most?
"I long to know, and yet I dread to hear it.
"Luc. Which is it Marcia wishes for

Mar. "For neither

"And yet for both-The youths have equal share
"In Marcia's wishes, and divide their sister :"
But tell me which of them is Lucia's choice?

"Luc. Marcia, they both are high in my esteem, "But in my love-Why wilt thou make me name him! "Thou know'st it is a blind and foolish passion, "Pleas'd and disgusted with it knows not what— "Mar. Oh, Lucia, I'm perplex'd, Oh, tell me which

"I must hereafter call my happy brother ?”

Luc. Suppose 'twere Portius, could you blame my choice?

-Oh, Portius, thou hast stol'n away my soul ! “With what a graceful tenderness he loves! "And breathes the softest, the sincerest vows! "Complacency, and truth, and manly sweetness, "Dwell ever on his tongue, and smooth his thoughts." Marcus is over-warm, his fond complaints Have so much earnestness and passion in them, I hear him with a secret kind of horror,

And tremble at his vehemence of temper.

Mar. Alas, poor youth! "how canst thou throw him

from thee?

"Lucia, thou know'st not half the love he bears thee? "Whene'er he speaks of thee, his heart's in flames, "He sends out all his soul in ev'ry word,

"And thinks, and talks, and looks like one transported.

"Unhappy youth!" How will thy coldness raise Tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom !

I dread the consequence.

Luc. You seem to plead Against your brother Portius.

Mar. Heav'n forbid!

Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover,
The same compassion would have fall'n on him.
Luc. Was ever virgin love distrest like mine!
Portius himself oft falls in tears before me,
As if he mourn'd his rival's ill success,
Then bids me hide the motions of my heart,
Nor shew which way it turns. So much he fears
The sad effects that it will have on Marcus.

"Mar. He knows too well how easily he's fir'd, "And wou'd not plunge his brother in despair, "But waits for happier times, and kinder moments. "Luc. Alas! too late I find myself involv'd "In endless griefs, and labyrinths of woe, "Born to afflict my Marcia's family,

"And sow dissention in the hearts of brothers. "Tormenting thought! It cuts into my soul." Mar. Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our sorrows,

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