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But hark! what means that grone! O give me way,
And let me fly into my father's presence.

LUCIUS.
Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome,
And in the wild disorder of his soul
Mourns o'er his country.

-hah! a second groan! Heaven guard us all

MARCIA.
Alas, 'tis not the voice
Of one who sleeps ! 'tis agonizing pain,
'Tis death is in that sound-

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Enter PORTIUS.

PORTIUS.
O fight of woe!
O Marcia, what we fear'd is come to paks!
Cato is fallen upon his sword

LUCIUS.
O Portius,
Hide all the horrours of thy'mournful tale,
And let us guess the rest.

PORT IU S.
I've rais'd him up,
And place'd him in his chair, where pale, and faint,
He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him,
Demands to see his friends. His fervants weeping,
Obfequious to his orders, bear him hither.

[T be back Scene opens, and discovers Cato.

M A R

T 0

Ο

To pay

M A RC I A.
O heav'n afsift me in this dreadful hour
the last fad duties to my father.

JUBA.
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Cæfar !

LUCIUS.
Now is Rome fallen indeed!

[Cato brought forward in his Chair.

CATO.
Here set me down-
Portius come near me are my friends embark'd ?
Can any thing be thought of for their service ?
Whilft I yet live, let me not live in vain.
-O Lucius, art thou here? - thou art too good !-
Let this our friendship live between our children;
Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia.
Alas poor man, he weeps!—Marcia, my daughter

- bend me forward! Juba loves thee, Marcia,
A Senator of Rome, while Rome survived,
Would not have match'd his Daughter with a King,
But Cæsar's arms have thrown down all distinction;
Whoe'er is Brave and Virtuous, is a Roman.

-I'm sick to death O when shall I get loose From this vain world, th' abode of guilt and sorrow!

And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in
On my departing foul. Alas, I fear
I've been too harty. Oye powers, that search
The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts,

If

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If I have done amiss, impute it not !
The best may err, but you are good, and -oh! [Dies.

L U C IU S.
There fled the greatest soul that ever warm'd
A Roman breast; O Cato! O my friend!
Thy will shall be religiously observ'd.
But let us bear this awful corps to Cæfar,
And lay it in his fight, that it may stand
A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath ;
Cato, tho' dead, shall fill protect his friends.

From hence, let fierce contending nations know
What dire effects from civil discord flow.
'Tis this that shakes our country with alarms,
And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms,
Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife,
And robs the Guilty world of Cato's life.

1 VOL. II.

F

EPI.

NOTES

2 EPILOGUE

By Dr. GARTH,

}

Spoken by Mrs. PORTE R.
W
HAT odd fantastic things we women do!

!
Who wou'd not liften when young lovers woo?
But die a maid, yet have the choice of two!
Ladies are often cruel to their coft;
To give you pain, themselves they punit moft.
Vows of virginity should well be weigh’d;
Too oft they're cancelld, tho' in convents made.
Would you revenge fucb rash refolvesyou may:
Be spiteful!--and believe the thing we fay;
We hate you when you're eafily faid nay.
How needless, if you knew as, were your fears?
Let Love have eyes, and Beauty will have ears.
Our hearts are form'd as you yourselves would choose,
Too proud to ask, too bumble to refuse :
Wo give to merit, and to wealth we sell ;
He fighs with most success that fettles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix ;
*Tis beft repenting in a coach and fix.

Blame

}

1

;

Blame not our conduet, since we but pursue
Those lively lessons we have learn'd

from you :
Your breafis no more the fire of beauty warms,

But wicked wealth ufurps the power of charms;
El What pains to get the gaudy thing you bate !

To swell in low, and be a wretch in flate !
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow
Even churches are no fanctuaries now :
There, golden idols all your vows receive,
She is no goddess that has nought to give.
Ob, may once more the happy age appear,
When words were artless, and the thoughts fincere;
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things,
And courts less coveted than groves and springs.
Love then shall only mourn when truth complains,
And conftancy feel transport in its chains ;
Sighs with success their own soft anguish tell,
And

eyes shall utter what the lips conceal :
Virtue again to its bright fation climb,
And beauty fear no enemy but time ;
The fair shall liften to desert alone,
And

every Lucia find a Cato's fon.

1

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