While good, and just, and anxious for his friends,
He's still severely bent against himself;
And when his fortune sets before him all
The pomps and pleasures that his soul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.

Syph. Believe me, prince, there's not an African
That traverses our vast Numidian deserts

In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises those boasted virtues.
Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase;
Amidst the running stream he slakes 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 repast, or an untasted spring,
Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.

Juba. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern
What virtues grow from ignorance and choice,
Nor how the hero differs from the brute.

Where shall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
How does he rise against a load of woes,

And thank the gods that threw the weight upon him!
Syph. '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 Cato's cause,
He had not fall'n by a slave's hand inglorious;
Nor would his slaughter'd armies now have lain
On Afric's sands, disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
Juba. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh?
My father's name brings tears into my eyes.
Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills!
Juba. What wouldst thou have me do?

Suph. Abandon Cato.

Juba. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan, By such a loss.

Syph. Ay, there's the tie that binds you!
You long to call him father. Marcia's charms
Work in your heart unseen, and plead for Cato.
No wonder you are deaf to all I say.

Juba. Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate;
I've hitherto permitted it to rave,

And talk at large; but learn to keep it in,
Lest it should take more freedom than I'll give it.
Syph. Sir, your great father never us'd me thus.
Alas, he's dead! but can you e'er forget

The tender sorrows,

And repeated blessings,

Which you drew from him in your last farewell?
The good old king, at parting, wrung my hand
(His eyes brimful of tears), then, sighing, cry'd,
Pr'ythee be careful of my son!His grief
Swell'd up so high, he could not utter more.
Juba. Alas! thy story melts away my soul!
That best of fathers! how shall I discharge
The gratitude and duty that I owe him?

Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart.
Juba. His counsels bade me yield to thy direction.
Syph. Alas! my prince, I'd guide you to your safety.
Juba. I do believe thou wouldst; but tell me how.
Syph. Fly from the fate that follows Cæsar's foes.
Juba. My father scorn'd to do it.

Syph. And therefore died.

Juba. Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths, Than wound my honour.

Syph. Rather say your love.

Juba. Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my temper. Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame

I long have stifled, and would fain conceal?

Syph. Believe me, prince, though hard to conquer love,

'Tis easy to divert and break its force.
Absence might cure it, or a second mistress
Light up another flame, and put out this.
The glowing dames of Zama's royal court
Have faces flush'd with more exalted charms;

Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon forget
The pale, unripen'd beauties of the north.

Juba. "Tis not a set of features, or complexion,
The tincture of a skin, that I admire :
Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her sex:
True, she is fair, (oh, how divinely fair!)
But still the lovely maid improves her charms
With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom,
And sanctity of manners; Cato's soul
Shines out in ev'ry thing she acts or speaks,
While winning mildness and attractive smiles
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace,
Soften the rigour of her father's virtue.

Syph. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise!

But, on my knees, I beg you would consider

Juba. Ha! Syphax, is't not she?-She moves this way; And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter.

My heart beats thick-I pr'ythee, Syphax, leave me. Syph. Ten thousand curses fasten on them both! Now will the woman, with a single glance,

Undo what I've been lab'ring all this while.

Enter MARCIA and LUCIA.

[Exit.

Juba. Hail, charming maid! how does thy beauty smooth

The face of war, and make ev'n horror smile!
At sight of thee my heart shakes off its sorrows;
I feel a dawn of joy break in upon me,

And for awhile forget th' approach of Cæsar.

Marcia. I should be griev'd, young prince, to think my presence

Unbent your thoughts, and slacken'd them to arms,
While, warm with slaughter, our victorious foe
Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field.

Juba. Oh, Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns

And gentle wishes follow me to battle!

The thought will give new vigour to my arm,

And strength and weight to my descending sword,
And drive it in a tempest on the foe.

Marcia. My pray'rs and wishes always shall attend
The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue,
And men approv'd of by the gods and Cato.
Juba. That Juba may deserve thy pious cares,
I'll gaze for ever on thy godlike father,
Transplanting, one by one, into my life,
His bright perfections, till I shine like him.
Marcia. My father never, at a time like this,
Would lay out his great soul in words, and waste
Such precious moments.

Juba. Thy reproofs are just,

Thou virtuous maid; I'll hasten to my troops,
And fire their languid souls with Cato's virtue.
If e'er I lead them to the field, when all
The war shall stand rang'd in its just array,
And dreadful pomp, then will I think on thee.
Oh, lovely maid! then will I think on thee;
And in the shock of charging hosts, remember
What glorious deeds should grace the man, who hopes
For Marcia's love.

[Exit. How could you chide the young, good-natur'd prince, And drive him from you with so stern an air;

Lucia. Marcia, you're too severe :

A prince that loves, and dotes on you to death?

Marcia. How, Lucia! wouldst thou have me sink
away

In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love,
When ev'ry moment Cato's life's at stake?

Lucia. Why have I not this constancy of mind,
Who have so many griefs to try its force?
Sure, nature form'd me of her softest mould,
Eufeebled all my soul with tender passions,
And sunk me ev'n below my own weak sex:
Pity and love, by turns, oppress my heart.

Marcia. Lacia, disburden all thy cares on me,
And let me share thy most retir'd distress.
Tell me, who raises up this conflict in thee?

B