And break off all its commerce with the tongue;
In short, to change us into other creatures,
Than what our nature and the Gods defign'd us?
JUBA.
To ftrike thee dumb: turn up thy eyes to Cato!
There may'st thou fee to what a godlike height
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man.
While good, and juft, and anxious for his friends,
He's ftill feverely bent against himself;
Renouncing fleep, and reit, and food, and eafe,
He strives with thirft and hunger, toil and heat;
And when his fortune fets before him all
The pomps and pleasures that his foul can wish,
His rigid virtae will accept of none.
Believe me, Prince, there's not an African
That traverfes our vaft Numidian defarts
In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises these boafted virtues.
Coarfe are his meals, the fortune of the chace,
Amidst the running stream he flakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and at th'approach of night
On the firft friendly bank he throws him down,
Or refts his head upon a rock 'till morn:
Then rifes fresh, purfues his wonted game,
And if the following day he chance to find
A new repaft, or an untafted fpring,
Bleffes his ftars, and thinks it luxury.
Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't difcern
What virtues grow from ignorance and choice,
Nor how the Hero differs from the Brute.
But grant that others could with equal glory
Look down on pleasures, and the baits of fenfe
Where fhall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestick in his griefs, like Cato?
Heavens with what ftrength, what fteadiness of mind,
He triumphs in the midst of all his fufferings !
How does he rife` against a load of woes,
And thank the Gods that throw the weight upon him!
SYPHA X.
'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of foul:
I think the Romans call it Stoicism.
Had not your royal father thought fo highly
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's caufe,
He had not fallen by a flave's hand, inglorious:
Nor would his flaughter'd army now have lain
On Africk's fands, disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the Wolves and Vultures of Numidia.
JUBA.
Why do'st thou call my forrows up afresh?
My Father's name brings tears into my eyes.
Oh! that you'd profit by your Father's ills.
What would't thou have me do?
Syphax, I fhould be more than twice an Orphan
Ay, there's the tie that binds you!
You long to call him Father. Marcia's charms
Work in your heart unfeen, and plead for Cato.
No wonder you are deaf to all I fay.
Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate;
I've hitherto permitted it to rave,
And talk at large; but learn to keep it in,
Left it should take more freedom than I'll give it.
SYPHA X.
Sir, your great father never us'd me thus.
Alas, he's dead! but can you e'er forget
The tender forrows, and the pangs of nature,
The fond embraces, and repeated bleffings,
Which you drew from him in your laft farewel?
Still muft I cherish the dear, fad, remembrance,
At once to torture, and to please my foul.
The good old King at parting wrung my hand,
(His eyes brim full of tears) then fighing cry'd,
Pr'ythee be careful of my fon! his grief
Swell'd up fo high, he could not utter more.
Alas, thy flory melts away my foul.
That beft of fathers! how shall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him!
SYPHA X.
By laying up his counfels in your heart.
JUBA.
His counfels bade me yield to thy directions:
Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms,
Vent all thy paffion, and I'll stand its shock,
Calm and unruffled as a fummer-fea,
When not a breath of wind flies o'er its furface.
Alas, my Prince, I'd guide you to your fafety.
JUBA.
I do believe thou would'ft: but tell me how?
Fly from the fate that follows Cafar's foes.
My father fcorn'd to do it.
SYPHA X.
Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths,
Than wound my honour.
Syphax, I've promis'd to preferve my temper.
Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame,
I long have ftifled, and would fain conceal?
SYPHA X.
Believe me, Prince, tho' hard to conquer love,
Tis eafie to divert and break its force:
Abfence might cure it, or a fecond mistress
Light up another flame, and put out this.
The glowing dames of Zama's royal court
Have faces flufht with more exalted charms;
The Sun, that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and colour in their cheeks:
Were you with thefe, my Prince, you'd foon forget
The pale unripen'd beauties of the North.
'Tis not a fett of features, or complexion,
The tincture of a skin, that I admire.
Beauty foon grows familiar to the lover,-
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her fex:
True, fhe is fair, (Oh how divinely fair!)
But ftill the lovely maid improves her charms
With inward greatnefs, unaffected wisdom,
And fanctity of manners. Cato's foul.
Shines out in every thing she acts or speaks,
While winning mildness and attractive smiles
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