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For neither

And yet for both the youths have equal share
In Marcia's wishes, and divide their fifter:

But tell me which of them is Lucia's choice ?

Marcia, they both are high in my esteem,
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-

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


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Suppofe 'twere Portius, cou'd you blame my choice? -O Portius, thou haft ftol'n away my foul! With what a graceful tenderness he loves!

And breathes the fofteft, the fincereft vows !' Complacency, and truth, and manly fweetnefs Dwell ever on his tongue, and smooth his thoughts. Marcus is overwarm, his fond complaints

Have fo much earnestness and paflion in them,

I hear him with a fecret kind of horror,

And tremble at his vehemence of temper.


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


He fends out all his foul in ev'ry word,

And thinks, and talks, and looks like one transported.

Unhappy youth! how will thy coldness raise
Tempefts and forms in his afflicted bofom!
I dread the confequence.


You feem to plead Against your brother Portius.


Heav'n forbid!

Had Portius been the unfuccessful lover,

The fame compaflion wou'd have fall'n on him.


Was ever virgin-love diftreft like mine! Portius himself oft falls in tears before me, As if he mourn'd his rival's ill fuccefs,

Then bids me hide the motions of my heart,
Nor fhew which way it turns. So much he fears
The fad effects, that it would have on Marcus.


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,


Alas, too late I find myself involv'd 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.

Let us not,' Lucia, aggravate our forrows, But to the gods permit th' event of things. Our lives difcolour'd with our present woes,

May ftill grow bright, and smile with happier hours, So the pure limpid ftream, when foul with stains Of rushing torrents and defcending 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 new heav'n in its fair bofom fhews.

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OME ftill furvives in this affembled fenate!
Let us remember we are Cato's friends,
And act like men who claim that glorious title.

Cato will foon be here, and open to us
The occafion 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.
Cæfar's approach has fummon'd us together,
And Rome attends her fate, from our refolves:
How shall we treat this bold aspiring man ?
Succefs ftill follows him, and backs his crimes:
Pharfalia gaye him Rome, Egypt has fince
Receiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cæfar's:
Why fhould I mention Juba's overthrow,
And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning fands

Still fmoke with blood.

'Tis time we should decree

Our foe advances on us,

What course to take.
And envies us ev❜n Lybia's fultry defarts.
Fathers, pronounce your thoughts, are they still fixt
To hold it out, and fight it to the last ?

Or are your hearts subdu'd at length, and wrought
By time and ill fuccefs to a fubmiffion?

Sempronius, fpeak.


My voice is still for war.

Gods, can a Roman fenate long debate
Which of the two to choose, flav'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 fervitude and chains.
Rouse up for fhame! our brothers of Pharfalia
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud to battle!
Great Pompey's fhade complains that we are flow,
And Scipio's ghoft walks unreveng'd amongst us!

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