SIR,

WHEN your generous labour first I view'd,

And Cato's hands in his own blood imbru'd;

That fcene of death fo terrible appears,
My foul could only thank you with her tears.
Yet with fuch wondrous art your skilful hand
Does all the paffions of the foul command,

That even my grief to praise and wonder turn'd,
And envy'd the great death which first I mourn'd.

What pen but yours could draw the doubtful strife,
Of honour ftruggling with the love of life?
Defcribe the Patriot, obfinately good,

As hovering o'er eternity he flood:

The wide, th' unbounded ocean lay before
His piercing fight, and Heaven the diftant fhore.
Secure of endless bliss, with fearless eyes,
He grafps the dagger, and its point defies,
And rushes out of Life, to fnatch the glorious prize.

How would old Rome rejoice, to hear you tell
How juft her Patriot liv'd, how great he fell!
Recount his wondrous probity and truth,
And form new Juba's in the British youth.
Their generous fouls, when he refigns his breath,
Are pleas'd with ruine, and in love with death.
And when her conquering fword Britannia draws,
Refolve to perish, or defend her cause.

Now

Now firft on Albion's theatre we fee,
A perfect image of what man should be;
The glorious character is now expreft,
Of virtue dwelling in a human breast.
Drawn at full length by your immortal lines,
In Cato's foul, as in her Heaven she shines.

All Souls College,
Oxon.

DIGBY COTES.

C+R+DIGS BARIDAD

Left with the Printer by an unknown hand. Now we may speak, fince Cato speaks no more; 'Tis praife at length, 'twas rapture all before;

When crowded theatres with lös rung

Sent to the skies, from whence thy genius Sprung :
Even civil rage awhile in thine was loft ;
And factions ftrove but to applaud thee moft:
Nor could enjoyment pall our longing tafte;
But every night was dearer than the laft.

As when old Rome in a malignant hour
Depriv'd of fome returning conqueror,
Her debt of triumph to the dead difcharg'd,
For fame, for treafure, and her bounds enlarg'd:
And, while his god-like figure mov'd along,
Alternate paffions fir'd th' adoring throng;

Tears flow'd from every eye, and shouts from every tongue.
So in thy pompous lines has Cato far'd,

Grac'd with an ample, tho' a late reward:
A greater victor we in him revere ;
A nobler triumph crowns his image here.

With wonder, as with pleasure, we furvey
A theme fo fcanty wrought into a play;
So vaft a pile on fuch foundations plac'd;
Like Ammon's temple rear'd on Libya's waste:
Behold its glowing paint! its eafie weight!
Its nice proportions! and ftupendous height !
How chaste the conduct, how divine the rage!
A Roman Worthy on a Grecian ftage!

But where fhall Cato's praife begin or end;
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend,
The firmeft Patriot, and the gentleft Friend!
How great his genius, when the traytor croud
Ready to strike the blow their fury vow'd,
Quell'd by his look, and liftning to his lore,
Learn, like his paffions, to rebel no more!
When, lavish of his boiling blood, to prove
The cure of flavish life, aad flighted love,
Brave Marcus new in early death appears,
While Cato counts his wounds, and not his years;
Who, checking private grief, the publick mourns,
Commands the pity he fo greatly fcorns.

But when he ftrikes, (to crown his generous part)
That honeft, ftaunch, impracticable heart;
No tears, no fobs pursue his parting breath;
The dying Roman shames the pomp.of death.

O facred Freedom, which the powers bestow
To feafon blefings, and to foften woe;
Plant of our growth, and aim of all our care's,
The toil of ages, and the crown of wars:

}

If, taught by thee, the Poet's wit has flor'd.
In ftrains as precious as his Hero's blood;
Preferve thofe ftrains, an everlasting charm
To keep that blood, and thy remembrance warm:
Be this thy guardian image ftill fecure,
In vain fhall force invade, or fraud allure;
Our great Palladium hall perform its part,
Fix'd and enforin'd in every British heart.

THE mind to virtue is by verse subdu'd ;
And the true Poet is a publick good.

This Britain feels, while, by your lines infpir'd,
Her free born fons to glorious thoughts are fir'd.
In Rome had you efpous'd the vanquish'd caufe,
Enflam'd her fenate, and upheld her laws ;
Your many scenes had liberty rejlor'd,
And given the juft fuccefs to Cato's fword:
O'er Cæfar's arms your genius had prevail'd ;
And the Mufe triumph'd, where the Patriot fail'd.

AMBR. PHILIPS.

PRO

PROLOGUE,

By Mr. PO PE.

Spoken by Mr. WILK S.
To wake the foul by tender firokes of art,

To raise the genius, and to mend the heart,
To make mankind in confcious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Mufe firft trod the ftage,
Commanding tears to ftream thro' every age;
Tyrants no more their favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move
The Heroe's glory, or the Virgin's love;
In pitying love we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deferves its woe.
Here tears fall flow from a more generous caufe,
Such tears as Patriots fed for dying laws:
He bids your breafts with ancient ardor rife,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confeft in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and God-like Cato was :
No common object to your fight displays,

But what with pleasure Heaven it self furveys;

A