Enter Portius and Marcus.
HE dawn is over-caft, the morning low'rs,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, th' important day, big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome-
-our father's death
Would fill up all the guilt of civil war,
And close the scene of blood. Already Cæfar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and fees
Mankind grown thin by his deftructive fword:
Should he go farther, numbers would be wanting
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havock does ambition make
Among your works!
Marc. Thy fteady temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud and Cæfar,
In the calm lights of mild philofophy;
I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: ev'ry time he's nam'd
Pharfalia rifes to my view!-I fee
Th' infulting tyrant prancing o'er the field,
Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in flaughter,
His horfe's hoofs wet with patrician blood!
Oh, Portius! is there not fome chosen curfe,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of Heav'n,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatnefs to his country's ruin?
Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,
And mix'd with too much horror to be envy'd;
How does the luftre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness !
His fuff'rings fhine, and fpread a glory round him;
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His fword ne'er fell, but on the guilty head;
Oppreffion, tyranny, and pow'r ufurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em.
Marc. Who knows not this? But what can Cato do
Against a world, a bafe, degen'rate world,
That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæfar?
Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms
A poor epitome of Roman greatness,
And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs
A feeble army, and an empty fenate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
By Heav'n, fuch virtues, join'd with fuch fuccefs,
Diftracts my very foul: our father's fortune
Would almoft tempt us to renounce his precepts.
Por. Remember what our father oft has told us:
The ways of Heav'n are dark and intricate,
Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors,
Our understanding traces them in vain,
Loft and bewilder'd in the fruitlefs fearch;
Nor fees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confufion ends.
Marc. Thefe are fuggeftions of a mind at ease:
Oh, Portius, didit thou tafte but half the griefs.
That wring my foul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly.
Paffion unpitied, and fuccefslefs love,
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind-
Por. Thou feeft not that thy brother is thy rival;
But I must hide it, for I know thy temper.
Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the proof:
Put forth thy utmoft ftrength, work ev'ry nerve,
And call up all thy father in thy foul:
To quell the tyrant, love, and guard thy heart
On this weak fide, where most our nature fails,
Would be a conqueft worthy Cato's fon.
Marc. Portius, the counfel which I cannot take,
Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Bid me for honour plunge into a war
Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death,
Then fhalt thou fee that Marcus is not flow
To follow glory, and confefs his father.
Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost
In high ambition, or a thirst of greatness;
'Tis fecond life, it grows into the foul,
Warms ev'ry vein, and beats in ev'ry pulfe,
I feel it here: my refolution melts
Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince,
With how much care he forms himself to glory,
And breaks the fierceness of his native temper,
To copy out our father's bright example.
He loves our fifter Marcia, greatly loves her;
His eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it;'
But ftill the fmother'd fondness burns within him;
• When most it fwells, and labours for a vent,'
The sense of honour, and defire of fame
Drive the big paffion back into his heart.
What! fhall an African, fhall Juba's heir
Reproach great Cato's fon, and fhew the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman foul!
Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave ftings behind 'em.
Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, fhew
A virtue that has caft me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?
Por. Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper well;
Fling but th' appearance of difhonour on it,
It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.
Marc. A brother's fuff'rings claim a brother's pity.
Por. Heav'n knows I pity thee. Behold my eyes
Ev'n whilft I speak-do they not swim in tears?
Were but my heart as naked to thy view;
Marcus would fee it bleed in his behalf.
Marc. Why then doft treat me with rebukes, instead Of kind condoling cares, and friendly forrow?
Por. Oh, Marcus! did I know the way to ease Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains,
Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it.
Marc. Thou best of brothers, and thou be of friends! Pardon a weak, diftemper❜d foul, that swells With fudden gufts, and finks as foon in calms,
The fport of paffions. But Sempronius comes:
He must not find this softness hanging on me. [Ex. Mar.
Enter Sempronius.
Sem. Confpiracies no fooner fhould be form'd
Than executed. What means Portius here ?
I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble,
And speak a language foreign to my heart.
Good-morrow, Portius; let us once embrace,
Once more embrace, while yet we both are free.
To-morrow, fhould we thus express our friendship,
Each might receive a flave into his arms.
This fun, perhaps, this morning fun's the last,
That e'er fhal rife on Roman liberty.
Por. My father has this morning call'd together
To this poor hall, his little Roman fenate,
(The leavings of Pharfalia) to confult
If he can yet oppose the mighty torrent
That bears down Rome, and all her gods before it,
Or must at length give up the world to Cæfar.
Sem. Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome
Can raise her fenate more than Cato's prefence.
His virtues render our affembly awful,
They strike with fomething like religious fear,
And make ev'n Cæfar tremble at the head
Of armies flush'd with conqueft. Oh, my Portius,
Could I but call that wond'rous man my father,
Would but thy fifter Marcia be propitious
To thy friend's vows, I might be blefs'd indeed!
Por. Alas, Sempronius! would it thou talk of love
To Marcia, whilft her father's life's in danger;
Thou might'st as well court the pale, trembling vestal,
When the beholds the holy flame expiring.
Sem. The more I fee the wonders of thy race,
Thou must take heed, my
The more I'm charm'd.
The world has all its eyes on Cato's fon;
Thy father's merit fets thee up to view,
And fhews thee in the fairest point of light,
To make thy virtues or thy faults confpicuous.
Por. Well doft thou feem to check my ling'ring here On this important hour-I'll ftraight away, And while the fathers of the fenate meet
In clofe debate, to weigh th' events of war,
I'll animate the foldiers' drooping courage
With love of freedom, and contempt of life;
I'll thunder in their ears their country's cause,
And try to roufe up all that's Roman in 'em.
'Tis not in mortals to command success,
But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it.
Sem. Curfe on the stripling! how he apes his fire?
Ambitiously fententious-But I wonder
Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian genius
Is well difpos'd to mischief, were he prompt
And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd,
And ev'ry moment quicken'd to the course.
-Cato has us'd meill: he has refus'd
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.
Befides, his baffled arms, and ruin'd cause,
Are bars to my ambition. Cæfar's favour,
That show'rs down greatness on his friends, will raise me
To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato,
I claim, in my reward, his captive daughter,
But Syphax comes-
Sy. Sempronius, all is ready;
I've founded my Numidians, man by man,
And find them ripe for a revolt: they all
Complain aloud of Cato's discipline,
And wait but the command to change their master.
Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste;
Ev'n while we speak our conqueror comes on,
And gathers ground upon us ev'ry moment.
Alas! thou know'ft not Cæfar's active foul,
With what a dreadful course he rushes on
From war to war. In vain has nature form'd
Mountains and oceans to oppofe his paffage;
He bounds o'er all; victorious in his march,
The Alps and Pyreneans fink before him;
Through winds and waves, and storms he works his way,
Impatient for the battle; one day more
Will fet the victor thund'ring at our gates.
But, tell me, haft thou yet drawn o'er young Juba ?
That ftill would recommend thee more to Cæfar,
And challenge better terms.
Sy. Alas, he's lost !
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