And, in the fhock of charging Hofts, remember
What glorious Deeds fhou'd grace the Man, who hopes
For Marcia's Love.
Luc. Marcia, you're too fevere:
How cou'd you chide the young good-natured Prince,
And drive him from you with fo ftern an Air,
A Prince that loves and dotes on you to Death?
Mar. 'Tis therefore, Lucia, that I chide him from me.
His Air, his Voice, his Looks, and honeft Soul
Speak all fo movingly in his Behalf,
I dare not truft my felf to hear him talk.
Luc. Why will you fight againft fo fweet a Paffion,
And steel your Heart to fuch a World of Charms?
Mar. How, Lucia, wou'dft thou have me fink away
In pleafing Dreams, and lofe my felf in Love,
When ev'ry moment Cato's Life's at Stake?
Cæfar comes arm'd with Terror and Revenge,
And aims his Thunder at my Father's Head:
Shou'd not the fad Occafion swallow up
My other Cares, and draw them all into it?
Luc. Why have not I this Conftancy of Mind,
Who have fo many Griefs to try its Force?
Sure, Nature form'd me of her foftest Mould,
Enfeebled all my Soul with tender Paffions,
And funk me ev'n below my own weak Sex :
Pity and Love, by turns, opprefs my Heart.
Mar. Lucia, disburthen all thy Cares on me,
And let me share thy moft retired Distress;
Tell me who raifes up this Conflict in thee?
Luc. I need not blush to name them, when I tell thee
They're Marcia's Brothers, and the Sons of Cato.
Mar. They both behold thee with their Sifter's Eyes: And often have reveal'd their Paffion to ine.
But tell me, whose Address thou favour'ft 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 Wifhes, and divide their Sifter:
But tell me which of them is Lucia's Choice?
Luc. Marcia, they both are high in my Efteem,
But in my Love- -Why wilt thou make me name him?
Thou know'ft it is a blind and foolish Paffion,
Pleas'd and difgufted with it knows not what.
Mar. O Lucia, I'm perplex'd, O tell me which
I must hereafter call my happy Brother?
Luc. Suppofe 'twere Portius, cou'd you blame
O Portius, thou haft ftol'n away my Soul!
With what a graceful Tendernefs he loves!
And breath's the fofteft, the fincereft Vows!
Complacency, and Truth, and manly Sweetness
Dwell ever on his Tongue, and fmooth his Thoughts.
Marcus is over-warm, his fond Complaints
Have fo much Earneftness and Paffion in them,
I hear him with a fecret kind of Dread,
And tremble at his Vehemence of Temper.
Mar. Alas poor Youth! how can'ft thou throw him from thee?
Lucia, thou know'it not half the Love he bears thee;
Whene'er he speaks of thee, his Heart's in Flames,
He fends out all his Soul in ev'ry Word,
And thinks, and talks, and looks like one tranfported.
Unhappy Youth! how will thy Coldness raise
Tempefts and Storms in his afflicted Bofom!
I dread the Confequence-
Luc. You seem to plead
Against your Brother Portius-
Mar. Heav'n forbid !
Had Portius been the unsuccessful Lover,
The fame Compaffion wou'd 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 Succefs.
Then bids me hide the Motions of
Nor fhow which Way it turns. So much he fears
The fad Effects, that it would have on Marcus.
Mar. He knows too well how eafily he's fired,
And wou'd not plunge his Brother in Despair,
But waits for happier Times, and kinder Moments.
Luc. Alas, too late I find my felf involved
In endless Griefs and Labyrinths of Woe,
Born to afflict my Marcia's Family,
And fow Diffention in the Hearts of Brothers.
Tormenting Thought! it cuts into my Soul.
Mar. Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our Sorrows,
But to the Gods permit th' Event of Things.
Our Lives, difcolour'd with our prefent Woes,
May ftill grow bright, and fmile with happier Hours.
So the pure limpid Stream, when foul with Stains
Of rufhing Torrents, and defcending Rains,
Work's it felf clear, and as it runs, refines;
Till by Degrees, the floating Mirrour fhines,
Reflects each Flow'r that on the Border grows,
And a new Heav'n in its fair Bofom fhows.
OME ftill furvives in this affembled Senate !
Let us remember we are Cato's Friends,
And act like Men who claim that glorious Title.
Luc. Cato will foon be here, and open to us
Th' Occafion of our Meeting. Heark! he comes!
May all the Guardian Gods of Rome direct him!
Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in Council.
Cafar's Approach has fummon'd us together,
And Rome attends her Fate from our Refolves:
How fhall we treat this bold afpiring Man?
Succefs ftill follows him, and backs his Crimes
Pharfalia gave him Rome, Egypt has fince
Receiv'd his Yoke, and the whole Nile is Cafar's.
Why should I mention Juba's Overthrow,
And Scipio's Death? Numidia's burning Sands
Still fmoak with Blood. 'Tis time we thould decree
What Course to take. Our Foe advances on us,
And envies us ev'n Libya's fultry Defarts.
Fathers, pronounce your Thoughts, are they ftill fixt
To hold it out, and fight it to the last?
Or are your Hearts fubdu'd at length, and wrought
By Time and ill Success to a Submission ?
Sempronius fpeak.
Semp. My Voice is ftill for War.
Gods, can a Roman Senate long debate
Which of the two to chufe, Slav'ry or Death!
No, let us rife at once, gird on our Swords,
And, at the Head of our remaining Troops,
- Attack the Foe, break through the thick Array
Of his throng'd Legions, and charge home upon him.
Perhaps fome Arm, more lucky than the reft,
May reach his Heart, and free the World from Bondage.
Rife, Fathers, rife; 'tis Rome demands
your Help;
Rife, and revenge her flaughter'd Citizens,
Or fhare their Fate: The Corps of half her Senate
Manure the Fields of Theffaly, while we
Sit here, delib'rating in cold Debates,
If we should facrifice our Lives to Honour,
Or wear them out in Servitude and Chains.
Roufe up for Shame! our Brothers of Pharfalia
Point at their Wounds, and cry aloud-To Battel!
Great Pompey's Shade complain's that we are flow,
And Scipio's Ghoft walk's unrevenged amongst us.
Cato Let not a Torrent of impetuous Zeal
Tranfport thee thus beyond the Bounds of Reason:
True Fortitude is feen in great Exploits
That Juftice warrant's, and that Wisdom guide's,
All elfe is tow'ring Frenzy and Distraction.
Are not the Lives of those, who draw the Sword
In Rome's Defence, entrusted to our Care?
Should we thus lead them to a Field of Slaughter,
Might not th' impartial World with Reafon fay
We lavisht at our Deaths the Blood of Thousands
To grace our Fall, and make our Ruin glorious?
Lucius, we next would know what's your Opinion.
Luc. My Thoughts, I must confefs, are turn'd on Peace.
Already have our Quarrels fill'd the World
With Widows and with Orphans: Scythia mourn's
Our guilty Wars, and Earth's remotest Regions
Lie half unpeopled by the Feuds of Rome:
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