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Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths,
Than wound my
Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my temper,
Believe me, prince, tho' hard to conquer love,
'Tis not a set of features, or complexion,
With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom,
How does your tongue grow wanton in her praife! But on my knees I beg you wou'd confider
Hah! Syphax, is't not the!the moves this way, And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter. My heart beats thick-I pr'ythee, Syphax, leave me,
SY PHA X.
Ten thousand curfes faften on 'em both! Now will this woman with a fingle glance Undo what I've been lab'ring all this while.
JUBA, MARCIA, LUCIA.
Hail, charming maid! how does thy beauty fmooth The face of war, and make ev'n horror fmile!
At fight of thee my heart shakes off its forrows;
And for a while forget th' approach of Cafar.
I fhou'd be griev'd, young prince, to think my
Unbent your thoughts, and flacken'd 'em to arms, While warm with flaughter, our victorious foe Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field. TUBA.
O Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns, And gentle wishes follow me to battle! The thought will give new vigour to my arm, Add ftrength and weight to my defcending fword, And drive it in a tempeft on the foe.
My pray'rs and wishes always fhall attend The friends of Rome, the glorious caufe 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, Tranfplanting, one by one, into my life His bright perfections, 'till I shine like him. MARCI A.
My father, never at a time like this
Wou'd lay out his great foul in words, and waste Such precious moments.
Thy reproofs are just,
Thou virtuous maid! I'll haften to my troops,
If e'er I lead them to the field, when all
And in the fhock of charging hofts, remember
Marcia, you're too fevere:
How cou'd you chide the young good-natured prince, And drive him from you with so stern an air,
A prince that loves and doats on you to death?
'Tis therefore, Lucia, that I chide him from me, His air, his voice, his looks, and honeft foul Speak all fo movingly in his behalf,
I dare not truft myself to hear him talk.
Why will you fight against so sweet a passion,
How, Lucia! wou'dft thou have me fink away In pleafing dreams, and lofe myself in love,
When ev'ry moment Cato's life's at stake?
Why have not I this conftancy of mind, Who have so many griefs to try its force? Sure, nature form'd me of her fofteft mould, Enfeebled all my foul with tender paffions, And funk me even below my own weak sex: Pity, and love, by turns opprefs my heart. MARCI A.
Lucia, difburden all thy cares on me,
I need not blush to name them, when I tell thee They're Marcia's brothers, and the fons of Cato. MARCIA
They both behold thee with their fifter's eyes: And often have reveal'd their paffion to me. 'But tell me, whofe addrefs thou favour'ft most? 'I long to know, and yet I dread to hear it.
Which is it Marcia wishes for?