A brave man ftruggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling fate!
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bofom beats not in his country's caufe?
Who fees him act, but envies every deed?)
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Even when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars,
The Spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate,
As her dead father's reverend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft,
The triumph ceas'd- tears gufb'd from every eye,
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by ;
Her laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's less than Cato's fword.

Britons attend: be worth like this approv'd, And forw have the virtue to be mov'd. With honeft fcorn the firft-fam'd Cato view'd

you

Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she fubdu'd.
Our Scene precariously fubfifts too long

On French tranflation, and Italian Song:
Dare to have fenfe your felves; affert the stage,
Bejuftly warm'd with your own native rage.
Such plays alone fhould please a British ear,

As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.

Dramatis

SCENE a large Hall in the Governor's Palace of Utica.

CATO.

HE dawn is over-caft, the morning lours,
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 destructive sword:
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting
To form new battels, and support his crimes.

Ye

Ye Gods, what havock does Ambition make

Among your works!

MARCUS.

Thy fteddy temper, Portius,

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

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 Heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blaft the man,
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
PORTIUS.

Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,
And mixt with too much horrour 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 fhine, and spread 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;
Oppreflion, tyranny, and power ufurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em.

MAR

1

MARCUS.

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 Heaven's, fuch virtues, join'd with fuch fuccefs,
Diftract my very foul: Our father's fortune
Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.
PORTIU S.

Remember what our father oft has told us:
The ways of Heaven are dark and intricate,
Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors:
Our understanding traces 'em 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.

MARCUS.

These are suggestions of a mind at eafe: Oh Portius, didft thou taste but half the griefs That wring my foul, thou couldft 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