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But still the lovely maid improves her charms,
With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom,
And sanctity of manners. Cato's soul
Shines out in ev'ry thing the acts or speaks,
While winning mildness and attractive sıniles
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace
Soften the rigour of her father's virtues.
Syph. How does your tongue grow wanton in her
praise !

Caro,

B

CHAP. VIII.

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CATO's SOLILOQUY.
It must be fo–Plato, thou reafon’ft well-
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond defire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward'horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ?
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Thro' what variety of untry'd being,
Thro’ what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me:
But shadows, clouds, and darkness reft upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us,
(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Thro' all her works) he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy,

But

1

But when? or where :--This world was made for Cæsar,
I'm weary of conjectures--this must end 'em.

Thus am I doubly arm'd-My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This, in a moment, 'brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The foul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point:
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and.the crush of worlds.

CAT.

CHAP. IX.

SOUTHAMPTON AND ESSEX. OFFICER.

My

Y lord,
We bring an order for your execution,
And hope you are prepar'd; for you must die
This very hour.

SOUTH. Indeed! the time is sudden!

Ess. Is death th' event of all my flatter'd hope? False Sex! and Queen more perjur'd than them all! But die I will without the least complaint, My soul shall vanish filent as the dew, Attracted by the sun from verdant fields, And leaves of weeping flowers-Come, my dear friend, Partner in fate, give me thy body in These faithful arms-and O now let me tell thee, And you, my lords, and Heaven my witness too, 4

I have

I have no weight, no heaviness on my soul,
But that I've lost my dearest friend his life.

SOUTH. And I protest by the same powers divine,
And to the world, 'tis all my happiness,
The greatest bliss my mind yet e'er enjoy'd,
Since we muft die, my lord, to die together.
Officer. The queen, my lord Southampton, has been

pleas'd
To grant particular mercy to your person;
And has by us fent you a reprieve from death,
With parden of your treasons, and commands
You to depart immediately from hence.

South. O my unguarded soul ! Sure never was
A man with mercy wounded fo before.

Ess. Then I am loose to steer my wand'ring voyage;
Like a bad vessel that has long been crost,
And bound by adverse winds, at last gets liberty,
And joyfully makes all the fail she can,
To reach its with'd- for port-Angels protect
The queen, for her my chiefest prayers shall be,
That as in time fhe has spar'd my noble friend,
And owns his crimes worth mercy, may she ne'er
Think fo of me too late when I am dead
Again, Southampton, let me hold thee fast,
For 'tis my last embrace.

SOUTH. O be less kind, my friend, or move less pity,
Or 1 shall sink beneath the weight of fadness!
1
weep

that I am doom'd to live without you,
And should have smil'd to share the death of Essex.

Ess. O fpare this tenderness for one that needs it,
For her that I commit to thee,-'tis all that I
Can claim of my Southampton-my wife!

Methinks

R.

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall fand, and pointing fay,
(While the long fud'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whose fouls the furies steeld,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The

gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whofe breast ne'er learnt to glow.
For others good, or melt at others woe:

What can atone (oh, ever injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites anpaid ?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd.
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,.
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show;
What tho'no weeping Loves thy alhes grace,
Nor polith'd marble emulate thy face :
What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet Thall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the Morn her earliest tears beftow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow ;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground now facred by thy relics made,

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once

So peaceful refts, without a fone, a name,
What had beanty, titles, wealth, and famea
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of duft alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themfelves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whose fout now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang hall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more !

Pope.

CHAP. V.

MORNING HYMN.

These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good !

HESE
Almighty! thine this universal frame
Thus wond'rous fair! thyself how wond'rous then!
Unspeakable! who fitt'st above these heav'ns,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowliest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye who belt can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heav'n,
On earth join all ye creatures to extol
Him firit, him laft, him midit, and without end,

Faireft

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