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Bat hark! what means that grone! O give me way,
And let me fly into my father's presence.

Cato, amidft his flumbers, thinks on Rome,
And in the wild disorder of his soul
Mourns o'er his country. -hah! a second groan!
Heaven guard us all

Alas, 'tis not the voice
Of one who sleeps ! 'tis agonizing pain,
'Tis death is in that sound


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O fight of woe!
O Marcia, what we fear’d is come to pass !
Cato is fallen upon his sword

O Portius,
Hide all the horrours of thy mournful tale,
And let us guess the rest.

I've rais'd him up,'
And place'd him in his chair, where pale, and faint,
He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him,
Demands to see his friends. His servants weeping,
Obfequious to his orders, bear him hither.
[The back Scene opens, and discovers Cato.


O heav'n affift me in this dreadful hour
To pay the last fad duties to my father.

These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Cæfar !

Now is Rome fallen indeed!

[Cato brought forward in his Chair.

Here set me down-
Portius come near me are my friends embark'd ?
Can any thing be thought of for their service ?
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
- bend me forward !- Juba loves thee, Marcia,
A Senator of Rome, while Rome survived,
Would not have match'd his Daughter with a King,
But Cæfar's arms have thrown down all distinction ;
Whoe'er is Brave and Virtuous, is a Roman.-

- I'm fick to death when shall I get loose From this vain world, th' abode of guilt and forrow!

And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in
On my departing soul. Alas, I fear
I've been too hasty. O ye powers, that search
The heart of man, and weigh his inmoft thoughts,


If I have done amiss, impute it not ! -
The best may err, but you are good, and-oh! [Dies.

There fled the greatest soul that ever warm'd
A Roman breast; O Cato! O my friend !
Thy will shall be religiously observ’d.
But let us bear this awful corps to Cæfar,
And lay it in his fight, that it may stand
A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath
Cato, tho' dead, shall still protect his friends.

From hence, let fierce contending nations know
What dire effects from civil discord 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.


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HAT odd fantáflie things we women do!

Who wou'd not liften when young lovers-woo?
But die a maid, yet have the choice of twó!
Ladies are often cruel to their coft;
To give you pain, themelues they punish moft.
Vows of virginity should well be weighd;
Too oft they're cancelld, tho' in convents made.
Would you revenge fucb rash resolves you may:
Be spiteful! and believe the thing we say ;
We hate you when you're easily 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 choose,
Too proud to ask, too bumble to refuse :
We give to merit, and to wealth we fell;
He hghs with most success that settles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix ;
*Tis best repenting in a coach and fix.



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Blame not our conduet, fince we but pursue
Those lively lessons we have learn'd

from you :
Your breafis 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 show, and be a wretch in flate !
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow ;
Even churches are no {an&uaries now:
There, golden idols all your vows receive,
She is no goddess that has nought to give.
Ob, may once more the happy age appear,
When words were artless, and the thoughts sincere ;
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things,
And courts less coveted than groves and springs.
Love then shall only mourn when truth complains,
And conftancy feel transport in its chains ;
Sighs with fuccess their own soft anguiso tell,

eyes fball utter what the lips conceal :
Virtue again to its bright station climb,
And beauty fear no enemy but time ;
The fair shall lifton to defert alone,
And every Lucia find a Cato's fon.

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