CATO." ACT I. SCENE I. PORTIUS, MARCUS. PORTIUS. The dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs, The great, th' important day, big with the fate. And close the scene of blood. Already Cæsar Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make While the present humour of idolizing Shakespear continues, no quarter will be given to this poem; though it be the master-piece of the author, and was the pride of the age in which it was written.-But a time will come, when, not as a tragedy, indeed, (for which the subject was unfit) but, as a work of art and taste, it will be supremely admired by all candid and judicious critics. b This opening of the drama is too solemn and declamatory. The author speaks,-not his "Persona dramatis." Horace has given a caution against this misconduct, in his ridicule of "Fortunam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellum,” which was addressed to the tragic, as well as, epic poet. MARCUS. Thy steady temper, Portius," I'm tortured even to madness, when I think Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter, PORTIUS. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness, Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome. His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head; Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em. MARCUS. 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, This a little palliates the indecorum, just now observed; and may let us see, that the poet himself was aware of it (so exact was his taste); but it does not wholly excuse it. And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs By heavens, such virtues, join'd with such success, PORTIUS. Remember what our father oft has told us: Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors : Our understanding traces 'em in vain, Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search ; MARCUS. These are suggestions of a mind at ease : Plant daggers in my heart," and aggravate My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind! PORTIUS. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy rival : Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the proof: To quell the tyrant Love, and guard thy heart. On this weak side, where most our nature fails, Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son. [Aside. MARCUS. Portius, the counsel which I cannot take, Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness. Bid me for honour plunge into a war A strange unnatural phrase: which yet hath made its fortune in modern tragedy. Besides, if these words have any meaning, it was ridiculous to add "aggravate my other griefs.” Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death, PORTIUS. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince ! What! shall an African, shall Juba's heir Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world A virtue wanting in a Roman soul? MARCUS. Portius, no more! your words leave stings be hind 'em. Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, show A virtue that has cast me at a distance. And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour? PORTIUS. Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper well; Fling but th' appearance of dishonour on it, It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze. MARCUS. A brother's sufferings claim a brother's pity. PORTIUS. Heaven knows I pity thee: behold my eyes Even whilst I speak-Do they not swim in tears? |