II.

But will not goodness claim regard,
And does not worth deferve reward?

I.

Does not their country lie at ftake?
Can they do too much for her fake ?

BOTH SPIRITS TOGETHER.

Though dreadful be this doom of fate,
Juft is that power which governs all :
Better this wondrous man fhould fall,
Than a moft glorious, virtuous state.

How great a curfe

has Providence

Thought fit to caft on human-kind!

Learning, courage, eloquence,

The gentleft nature, nobleft mind,

Were intermixt in one alone;

Yet in one moment overthrown.

Could chance, or fenfelefs atoms, join
To form a foul fo great as his?
Or would thofe powers we hold divine,
Destroy their own chief mafter-piece?

Where fo much difficulty lies,

The doubtful are the only wife.

And, what muft more perplex our thoughts,
Great Jove the best of Romans fends,

To do the very worst of faults,

And kill the kindeft of his friends.

All this is far above our reach,

Whatever pricfts prefume to preach.

PROLOGUE

TO

MARCUS BRUTUS.

UR fcere is Athens. And, great Athens nam'd,

What foul fo dull as not to be inflam'd?
Methinks, at mentioning that facred place,
A reverend awe appears in every face,
For men fo fam'd, of fuch prodigious parts,
As taught the world all sciences and arts.

Amidst all thefe ye fhall behold a man
The most applauded since mankind began,
Out-thining ev'n thofe Greeks who most excel,
Whofe life was one fix'd courfe of doing well.
Oh! who can therefore without tears attend
On fuch a life, and fuch a fatal end?

But here our author, befides other faults
Of ill expreffions, and of vulgar thoughts,
Commits one crime that needs an act of grace,
And breaks the law of unity of place:
Yet to fuch noble patriots, overcome
By factious violence, and banish'd Rome,
Athens alone a fit retreat could yield;

And where can Brutus fall, but in Philippi field?

Some critics judge ev'n love itself too mean
A care to mix in fuch a lofty fcene,

And with those ancient bards of Greece believe
Friendship has stronger charms to please or grieve:
But our more amorous poet, finding love
Amidst all other cares, ftill fhines above,
Lets not the best of Romans end their lives.
Without just softness for the kindest wives,
Yet, if ye think his gentle nature fuch
As to have foften'd this great tale too much,
Soon will your eyes grow dry, and passion fall,
When ye reflect 'tis all but conjugal.

This to the few and knowing was addreft;
And now 'tis fit I fhould falute the rest.

Moft reverend dull judges of the pit,
By nature curs'd with the wrong fide of wit!
You need not care, what-e'er you fee to-night,
How ill fome players act, or poets write;
Should our miftales be never fo notorious,
You'll have the joy of being more cenforious ::
Shew your finall talent then, let that fuffice ye;
But grow not vain upon it, I advise ye;
Each petty critic can objections raife,
The greatest skill is knowing when to praife.

CHORUSES IN MARCUS BRUTU!

DA

*CHORUS

I.

III.

ARK is the maze poor mortals tread;
Wisdom itself a guide will need :

We little thought, when Cæfar bled,
That a worfe Cæfar would fucceed.
And are we under fuch a curfe,
We cannot change but for the worse ?

11.

With fair pretence of foreign force,
By which Rome must herself enthral;
These, without blushes or remorse,
Profcribe the best, impoverish all.
The Gauls themfelves, our greatest foes,
Could act no mifchiefs worse than those.

III.

That Julius, with ambitious thoughts,
Had virtues too, his foes could find;
These equal him in all his faults,
But never in his noble mind.
That free-born fpirits fhould obey
Wretches, who know not how to fway!

IV.

Late we repent our hafty choice,
In vain bemoan fo quick a turn.
Hark all to Rome's united voice!

Better that we a while had borne

Ev'n

* See the first and second choruses, in the poems of Mr. Pope.

Ev'n all thofe ills which moft difplease,
Than fought a cure far worse than the disease.

Ου

CHORUS

IV.

UR vows thus chearfully we fing, While martial mufic fires our blood; Let all the neighbouring echoes ring

With clamours for our country's good:
And, for reward, of the just gods we ciaim,
A life with freedom, or a death with fame.

May Rome be freed from war's alarms,
And taxes heavy to be borne ;
May the beware of foreign arms,

And fend them back with noble scorn:

And, for reward, &c.

May fhe no more confide in friends,

Who nothing farther understood,

Than only, for their private ends,

To waste her wealth, and spill her blood: And, for reward, &c.

Our fenators, great Jove, reftrain

From private piques, they prudence call; From the low thoughts of little gain,

And hazarding the lofing all :

And, for reward, &c.