O Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass!
Cato is fallen upon his fword-
Hide all the horrours of thy mournful tale,
And let us guess the reft.
And plac'd him in his chair, where pale, and faint, He gafps for breath, and, as his life flows from him, Demands to fee his friends. His fervants weeping, Obfequious to his orders, bear him hither.
[The back scene opens, and difcovers Cato. MARCI A.
O heav'n affift me in this dreadful hour pay the laft fad duties to my father.
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Cefar!
LUCIU S.
Now is Rome fallen indeed!
[Cato brought forward in his chair.
Portius come near me-are my friends embark'd?
Can any thing be thought of for their fervice?
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--
-O bend me forward!-Juba loves thee, Marcia.
A fenator of Rome, while Rome furvived,
Would not have match'd his daughter with a King,
But Cafar's arms have thrown down all distinction ;
Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman.-
-I'm fick to death-O when fhall I get loofe
From this vain world, th' abode of guilt and forrow!
-And
yet methinks a beam of light breaks in
On my departing foul. Alas, I fear
I've been too hafty. O ye powers, that fearch
The heart of man, and weigh his inmoft thoughts,
If I have done amifs, impute it not!———
The best may err, but you are good, and---oh!
There fled the greatest foul that ever warm'd A Roman breaft; O Cato! O my friend! Thy Will fhall be religioufly obferv'd. But let us bear this awful corps to Cafar, And lay it in his fight, that it may stand A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath; Cato, though dead, shall still protect his friends.
From hence, let fierce contending nations know What dire effects from civil difcord 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.
Spoken by Mrs. PORTER.
WHAT odd fantastic things we women do!
Who would not liften when young lovers
But die a maid, yet have the choice of two!
Ladies are often cruel to their coft;
To give you pain, themselves they punish most.
Vows of virginity fhould well be weigh'd;
Too oft they're cancell'd, though in convents made.
Would you revenge fuch rash resolves—you may:
Be fpiteful!-and believe the thing we fay;
We hate you when you're eafily faid nay.
How needless, if you knew us, were your fears?
Let love have eyes, and beauty will have ears.
Our hearts are form'd as you yourselves would
Too proud to afk, too humble to refufe: [choose,
We give to merit, and to wealth we fell;
He fighs with moft fuccefs that fettles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix;
'Tis beft repenting in a coach and six.
Blame not our conduct, fince we but purfue Thofe lively leffons we have learn'd from you:
Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms,
But wicked wealth ufurps the power of charms;
What pains to get the gaudy thing you hate!
To fwell in fhow, and be a wretch in ftate!
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.
Oh, 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 lefs coveted than groves and fprings.
Love then shall only mourn when truth complains,
And conftancy feel transport in its chains;
Sighs with success their own foft anguish tell,
And eyes fhall utter what the lips conceal:
Virtue again to its bright station climb,
And beauty fear no enemy but time;
The fair fhall liften to defert alone,
And every Lucia find a Cato's fon,
To Her ROYAL HIGHNESS the
With the Tragedy of CATO. Nov. 1714.
HE mufe that oft, with facred raptures fir'd, Has gen'rous thoughts of liberty inspir'd, And, boldly rifing for Britannia's laws, Engage'd great Cato in her country's caufe,
you fubmiflive waits, with hopes affur'd,
By whom the mighty bleffing ftands fecur'd,
And all the glories, that our age adorn,
Are promis'd to a people yet unborn.
No longer fhall the widow'd land bemoan
A broken lineage, and a doubtful throne;
But boast her royal progeny's increase,
And count the pledges of her future peace.
O born to ftrengthen and to grace our ifle!
While you, fair PRINCESS, in your offspring
Supplying charms to the fucceeding age, [fmile,
Each heav'nly daughter's triumphs we prefage;
Already fee th' illuftrious youths complain,
And pity monarchs doom'd to figh in vain.
Thou too, the darling of our fond defires,
Whom Albion, opening wide her arms, requires,
With manly valour and attractive air
Shalt quell the fierce, and captivate the fair.
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