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Alas, young Prince,
Falfhood and fraud fhoot up in every foil

The product of all climes Rome has its Cæfars.


"Tis gen'rous thus to comfort the diftrefs'd.


'Tis just to give applaufe where 'tis deferv'd: Thy virtue, Prince, has ftood the teft of fortune, Like pureft gold, that, tortur'd in the furnace, Comes out more bright, and brings forth all its weight.


What shall I answer thee? ny ravish'd heart
O'erflows with fecret joy: I'd rather gain
Thy praife, O Cato, than Numidia's empire.

Re-enter PORTIUS.


Misfortune on misfortune! grief on grief! My brother Marcus


Hah! what has he done?

Has he forfook his poft ? has he given way?
Did he look tamely on, and let 'em pass ? .

Scarce had I left my father, but I met him Borne on the fhields of his furviving foldiers,

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Breathlefs and pale, and cover'd o'er with wounds.
Long at the head of his few faithful friends,
He stood the fhock of a whole host of foes,
Till obftinately brave, and bent on death,
Oppreft with multitudes he greatly fell.


I'm fatisfy'd.


Nor did he fall before

His fword had pierc'd through the false heart of Syphax. Yonder he lies. I faw the hoary traitor

Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the ground.

Thanks to the gods! my boy has done his duty!
-Portius, when I am dead, be sure you place
His urn near mine.


Long may they keep asunder!


O Cato, arm thy foul with all its patience;

See where the corps of thy dead fon approaches?

The citizens and fenators, alarm'd,

Have gather'd round it, and attend it weeping.

CATO meeting the Corps.

Welcome, my fon! here lay him down, my friends, Full in my fight, that I may view at leifure

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The bloody corfe, and count thofe glorious wounds.
How beautiful is death, when earn'd by virtue!
Who would not be that youth? what pity is it
That we can die but once to serve our country!
Why fits this fadnefs on your brows, my friends?
I should have blush'd if Cato's house had stood
Secure, and flourish'd in a civil war.

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-Portius, behold thy brother, and remember Thy life is not thy own, when Rome demands it. JUBA.

Was ever man like this!



Alas, my


Why mourn you thus ? let not a private lofs
Afflict your hearts. 'Tis Rome requires our tears,
The miftrefs of the world, the feat of empire,
The nurse of heroes, the delight of gods,
That humbled the proud tyrants of the earth,
And fet the nations free, Rome is no more.
O liberty! O virtue! Omy country!


Behold that upright man: Rome fills his eyes

With tears, that flow'd not o'er his own dead fon. [Afide.


Whate'er the Roman virtue has fubdu❜d,

The fun's whole courfe, the day and year, are Cæfar's. For him the felf-devoted Decii dy'd,


The Fabii fell, and the great Scipio's conquer❜d:
Ev'n Pompey fought for Cæfar. Oh, my friends!
How is the toil of fate, the work of ages,
The Roman Empire fall'n! O curst ambition!
Fall'n into Cæfar's hands! Our great fore-fathers
Had left him nought to conquer but his country.

While Cate lives, Cæfar will blush to fee
Mankind enflaved, and be ashamed of empire.

Cæfar afhamed! has not he feen Pharfalia?

Cato, 'tis time thou fave thyself and us.


Lofe not a thought on me. I'm out of danger.
Heaven will not leave me in the victor's hand.
Cefar fhall never fay, I conquer'd Cato.

But oh, my friends, your fafety fills my heart
With anxious thoughts: a thousand fecret terrors
Rife in foul: how fhall I fave friends!
'Tis now, O Cafar, I begin to fear thee.


Cafar has

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Then ask it, I conjure you! let him know Whate'er was done against him, Cato did it. Add, if you please, that I requeft it of him,


The virtue of my friends may pafs unpunish'd.
Juba, my heart is troubled for thy fake.
Should I advife thee to regain Numidia,
Or feek the conqueror ?é-


If I forfake thee

While I live, may heaven abandon Juba!

Thy virtues, Prince, if I forefee aright,
Will one day make thee great: At Rome hereafter,
'Twill be no crime to have been Cato's friend.

Portius, draw near! My fon, thou oft haft feen
Thy fire engag'd in a corrupted state,

Wrestling with vice and faction: now thou feeft me
Spent, overpower'd, despairing of fuccefs;

Let me advise thee to retreat betimes

To my paternal feat, the Sabine field,

Where the great Cenfor toil'd with his own hands,
And all our frugal ancestors were bless'd
In humble virtues, and a rural life.

'There live retired, pray for the peace of Rome,
Content thyself to be obfcurely good.
When vice prevails, and impious men bear fway,
The poft of honour is a private ftation.


I hope my father does not recommend A life to Portius, that he fcorns himself.


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