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For neither
And yet for both-the youths have equal thare
In Marcid's wishes, and divide their lifter:
But tell me which of them is Lucia's choice?

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 disgufted with it knows not what-

O Lucia, I'm perplex'd, O tell me which
I must hereafter call my happy brother?

Suppose 'twere Portius, cou'd you blame my choice?

O Portius, thou haft foľn away my foul!
With what a graceful tenderness he loves !

And breathes the foftest, the fincereft vows !"
Complacency, and truth, and manly sweetness
Dwell ever on his tongue, and smooth his thoughts.
Marcus is overwarm, his fond complaints
Have so much earnestness and passion in them,
I heat him with a secret kind of horror,
And tremble at his vehemence of temper.

Alas, poor youth! how can'st thou throw him from thee?
Lucia, thou know'st not half the love he bears thee :
Whenc'er he speaks of thee, his heart's in flames,


He sends out all his soulin 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 boloin!
I dread the confequence.

You seem to plead
Against your brother Portius.

Heav'n forbid !
Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover,
The same compassion wou'd' have fallin on him.

Was ever virgin-love distreft 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 heart,
Nor shew which way it turns.

So much he fears
The fad effects, that it would have on Marcus.

He knows too well how easily he's fired,
And wou'd not plunge his brother in despair,
But waits for happier tines, and kinder moments,

Alas, too late I find myself involv'd
In endless griefs and labyrinths of woe,
Born to afflict my Marcia's family,



And sow diffention in the hearts of brothers,
Tormenting thought! it cuts into my soul.

Let us not,' Lucia, aggravate our forrows,
But to the gods permit th’ event of things..
Our lives discolour'd with our present woes,
May still grow bright, and smile with happier hours

So the pure limpid stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains,
Works itself clear, and as it runs, refines,
'Till by degrees the floating mirrour shines,
Reflects each flow'r that on the border grows,
And a ne

heav'n in its fair bosom Thews. [Exeunt.

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o E M P R 0 N 1U S.
OME ftill survives in this assembled senate!

Let us remember we are Cato's friends,
And act like men who claim that glorious title.

Cato will soon be here, and open to us
The occasion of our meeting. Hark! he comes !

[A found of trumpets. May all the guardian gods of Rome direct him!

Enter CAT O.

Fathers, we once again are met in council.
Cefar's approach has summon'd us together,
And Rome attends her fate, from our resolves:
How shall we treat this bold aspiring man?
Success still follows him, and backs his crimes :
Pharfalia gaye him Rome, Egypt has fince
Receivd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cæfar's:
Why should I mention Juba's overthrow,
And Scipio's death ? Numidia's burning fands

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Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree
What courle to take. Qur foe advances on us,
And envies us ev'n Lybia's sultry desarts.
Fathers, pronounce your thoughts, are they fill 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 fubmiffion?
Sempronius, speak.

My voice is still for war.
Gods, can a Roman fenate long debate
Which of the two to choose, Rav'ry or death!
No, let us rise at once, gird on our swords,
And at the head of our remaining troops,
Atrack the foe, break through the thick array
Of his throng'd legions, and charge home upon him. .
Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest,
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.
Rife, fathers, rife! 'tis Rome demands your help;
Rise, and revenge her Daughter'd citizens,
Or share their fate! the corps of half her fenate
Manure the fields of Tbefaly, while we
Sit here delib'rating in cold debates,
If we should facrifice our lives to honour,
Or wear them out in fervitude and chains. ,
Rouse up for fhame! our brothers of Pharfalia
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud to battle!
Great Pompey's Made complains that we are Now,
And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongst us!

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