A brave man fruggling in the forms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling ftate!
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bofom beats not in his country's cause?
Who fees him alt,
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 flate,
As her dead father's reverend image past,
The pamp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft,
The triumph ceas'd-tears gufh'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 lefs than Cato's fword.
Britons attend: be worth like this approv'd, And how you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft fcorn the firft-fam'd Cato view'd
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 flage,
Be juftly warm'd with your own native rage.
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.
SCENE a large Hall in the Governor's Palace of Utica.
HE dawn is over-caft, the morning lours,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, th' important day, big with
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 Cafar
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 battles, and fupport his crimes.
Ye Gods, what havock does Ambition make
The 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 curfe,
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?
PORTIU S.
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 fpread 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;
Oppreffion, tyranny, and power ufurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em.
MARCUS.
Who knows not this? but what can Cato do
Against a world, a base 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,
Diftract my very foul: Our father's fortune
Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.
PORTIUS.
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 fearch
Nor fees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confufion ends.
These are fuggeftions of a mind at ease:
Oh Portius, didit 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!
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