Ye Gods, what havock does Ambition make

Among your works!

MARCU S.

Thy fteddy temper, Portius,

Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæfar,
In the calm lights of mild Philofophy;

I'm tortur'd, even to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he's named
Pharfalia rifes to my view! I fee

Th' infulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field
Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in flaughter,
His Horfe's hoofs wet with Patrician blood!

Oh Portius, is there not fome chofen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the ftores of Heav'n,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man,
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
PORTIU S.

Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatnefs,
And mixt 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 fufferings shine, and spread a glory round him;
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the caufe

Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His fword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppreffion, tyranny, and power ufurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em.

MAR

MA R CUS.

Who knows not this? but what can Cato do
Against a world, a bafe degenerate 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 Heavens, fuch virtues, join'd with fuch fuccefs,
Distract my very foul: Our father's fortune
Would almoft tempt us to renounce his precepts.
PORTIU S.

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 'em in vain,
Loft and bewilder'd in the fruitless search:
Nor fees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confufion ends.

MARCU S.

These are fuggeftions of a mind at ease ;

Oh Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs

That wring my foul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly.
Paffion unpity'd, and fuccefless love,

Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind!

VOL. II.

B

POR

PORT 1 US.

Thou fee'ft not that thy Brother is thy Rival: But I must hide it, for I know thy temper.

[Afide. Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the proof: Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve, And call up all thy father in thy foul: To quell the tyrant Love, and guard thy heart On this weak fide, where moft our nature fails, Would be a conquest worthy Cato's fon.

MARGU S.

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 confess his father.
Love is not to be reason'd down, or loft
In high ambition, and a thirk of greatness;
'Tis fecond life, it grows into the foul,
Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse,
I feel it here: my resolution melts-

PORTIU S.

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

But ftill the smother'd fondness burns within him.
When moft it fwells, and labours for a vent,
The fenfe of honour, and defire of fame
Drive the big paffion back into his heart.

What! fhall an African, shall Juba's heir
Reproach great Cato's fon, and show the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman soul?

MARCUS.

Portius, no more! your words leave Rings behind 'em. When-e'er did Juba, or did Portius, how

A virtue that has caft me at a distance,

And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?
PORTIUS,

Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper well;
Fling but th' appearance of dishonour on it,
It ftraight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.
MARCU S.

A Brother's fufferings claim a Brother's pity.
PORTIUS.

Heaven knows I pity thee: behold my eyes
Even whilft I fpeak-Do they not swim in tears ?
Were but my heart as naked to thy view,
Marcus would fee it bleed in his behalf.

MARCU S.

Why then doft treat me with rebukes, instead Of kind condoling cares, and friendly forrow?

PORTIU S.

O Marcus, did I know the way to ease

Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains,
Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it.

MARCU S.

Thou beft of brothers, and thou beft of Friends!Pardon a weak diftemper'd soul, 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.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

SEMPRONIUS, PORTIUS.

SEMPRONIUS.

Confpiracies no fooner fhould be form'd Than executed. What means Portius here? I like not that cold youth. I must diffemble, And speak a language foreign to my heart.

[Afide.

Good-morrow Portius! let us once embrace,
Once more embrace; whilft yet we both are free.
To-morrow fhould we thus express our friendship,
Each might receive a slave into his arms:
This 'Sun perhaps, this morning Sun's the laft,
That e'er fhall rife on Roman liberty.

PORTIU S.

My father has this morning call'd together To this poor hall his little Roman Senate, (The leavings of Pharfalia) to confult

If