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Demands to fee his friends. His fervants weeping,
[The back scene opens, and discovers Cato
O heaven, affift me in this dreadful hour To pay the laft fad duties to my father.
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Cæfar?
Now is Rome fallen indeed!
[Cato brought forward in his chair.
Here fet me down
Portius, come near me-are my friends embark'd ?
-O Lucius, art thou here ?-Thou art too good→→→→
-I'm fick to death
-And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in
I've been too hafty. Oye pow'rs, that search
The heart of man, and weigh its inmoft thoughts,
If I have done amifs, impute it not !—
The best may err, but you are good, and—oh! [Dies,
There fled the greatest soul that ever warm'd
A Roman breaft; O Cato! O my friend!
From hence, let fierce contending nations know
By Dr. GARTH.
Spoken by Mrs. PORTER.
HAT odd fantaftic things we women do!
To give you pain, themfelves they punish moft.
Our hearts are form'd as you yourselves would choose,
We give to merit, and to wealth we fell;
He fighs with moft fuccefs that fettles well.
Blame not our conduct, fince we but pursue Thofe lively leffons we have learn'd from you; Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms, But wicked wealth ufurps the power of charms; What pains to get gaudy the thing you hate! To fwell in show, and be a wretch in state! At plays you ogle, at the ring you bows Even churches are no fanctuaries now: There, golden idols all your vows receive, She is no goddess that has nought to give. Oh, may once more the happy age appear, When words were artlefs, and the thoughts finceres When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things, And courts lefs coveted than groves and fprings. Love then fhall only mourn when truth complains, And conftancy feel tranfport in its chains; Sighs with fuccefs their own foft anguish tell, And eyes fhall utter what the lips conceal: Virtue again to its bright ftation climb, And beauty fear no enemy but time; The fair fhall liften to defert alone, And every Lucia find a Cato's for.
To Her ROYAL HIGHNESS the
PRINCESS of WALES,
With the Tragedy of CATO, Nov. 1714.
HE mufe that oft, with facred raptures fir'd,
No longer fhall the widow'd land bemoan
Thou too, the darling of our fond defires,