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Amidst our barren rocks, and burning sands,
That does not tremble at the Roman name?

Sr PH A X.
Gods! where's the worth that sets this people up
Above our own Numidia's tawny sons !
Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow?
Or Aies the jav'lin swifter to its mark,
Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arın !
Who like our active African infructs
The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand ?
Or guides in troops th' embattled elephants,
Loaden with war? these, these are arts, my prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.

These all are virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are plac'd in bones and nerves.
A Roman soul is bent on higher views:
To civilize the rude unpolish'd world,
And lay it under the restraint of laws;
To make'man mild, and sociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious savage
With wisdom, discipline, and lib'ral arts ;
The embellishments of life: Virtues like these,
Make human nature shine, reform the soul,
And break our fierce barbarians into inen.

s r 2 H 4 X.
Patience, kind heav'ns !--excuse an old man's warmth.
What are these wondrous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and this smooth behaviour,


That render man thus tractable and tame?
Are they not only to disguise our passions,
To set our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the starts and salies of the soul,
And break off all its commerce with the tongue?
In short, to change us into other creatures,
Than what our nature and the gods design'd us?

To strike thee dumb, turn up thy eyes to Caro !
There may’st thou see to what a godlike height
'The Roman virtues lift


mortal man.
While good, and just, and anxious for his friends,
He's still severely bent against himself;;
Renouncing sleep, and rest, and food, and ease,
He strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat ;
And when his fortune sets before him all
The pomps and pleasures that his foul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.

Believe ine, prince, there's not an African
That traverses our yast Numidian defarts
In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises these boasted virtues.
Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chace,
Amidft the running stream he Nakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and at th' approach of night
On the first friendly bank he throws him 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 repaft, or an untasted spring,
Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury

Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern
What yirtues grow from ignorance and choice,
Nor how the hero differs from the brute.
• But grant that others cou'd with equal glory
• Look down on pleasures, and the baits of sense ;
• Where shall we find the man that bears aft/iction,
• Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cata?

Heay'as! with what strength, what fteadiness of mind ' He triumphs in the midst of all his fuff’rings! • How does he rise against a load of woes, * And thank the gods that throw the weight upon him!

SYPH A X. • '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 Cate's cause, He had not falln by a slave's hand, inglorious ; Nor would his daughter'd army now have lain On Afric's fands, disfigurd with their wounds, To zorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.

Why dof thou call my forrows up afresh ?
My father's naine brings tears into my eyes.



Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills!

What wou'd'lt thou have me do?

srPHA X. Abandon Cato.

JUB 4.
Syphax, I shou'd be more than twice an orphan
By such a loss.

sr P H A X.
Ay, there's the tie that binds
You long to call him father. Marcia's charms
Work in your heart unseen, and plead for Cato.
No wonder you are dead to all I say.

Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate ;
I've hitherto permitted it to rave,
And talk at large; but learn to keep it in,
Left it should take more freedom than I'll give it.

Sir, your great

father never us'd me thus.
Alas, he's dead! But can you e'er forget
The tender sorrows and the pangs of nature, ·
The fond embraces, and repeated bleffings,

you drew from him in your last farewel ? Still muft I cherish the dear, fad remembrance, At once to torture, and to please my soul.


The good old king at parting wrung my hand,
(His eyes brimfull of tears) then fighing cry'd,
Pr’ythee be careful of my son!his grief
up so high he could not utter'more..

Alas, thy story melts away my soul.
That beft of fathers! how shall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him!

Sr P H A X.
By laying up his counsels in your heart. .

His counsels bade me yield to thy directions :
Then, Syphax, chide me in feverest terms,
Vent all thy passions, and I'll stand its shock,
Calm and unruffled as a summer sea,
When not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface.

Sr P H A X. : Alas, my prince, I'd guide you to your fafeiy.

I do believe thou would'st: but tell me how?

Fly from the fate that follows Cæsar's foes.

JU B. A.
My father scorn'd to do it.

S r P H A X.
And therefore dy’d.

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