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Loaden with war? These, these are arts, my prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.

JUB. These all are virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are plac'd in bones and nerves,
A Roman soul is bent on higher views ;
To civilize the rule unpolith'd world,
To lay it under the restraint of laws;
To make man mild, and sociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious savage
With wisdom, discipline, and lib'ral arts ;
Th’embellifhments of life ; virtues like these,
Make human nature shine, reform the soul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.
Syph. Patience, just heav'na !--Excuse an old man's

warmth,
What are these wond'rous civilizing arts,
This Romon polish, and this smooth behaviour,
That render men thus tractable and tame?
Are they not only to disguise our pallions,
To set our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the starts and fallies of the soul,
And break off ali its commerce with the tongue ?
In short, to change us into other creatures,
Than what our nature and the gods design’d us?

Jus. To strike thee dumb: turn up thy eyes to Cato!
There may'lt thou see to what a godlike height
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man.
While good, and just, and anxious for his friends,
He's still feverely bent against himself;
Renouncing seep, and rest, and food, and ease,

He strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat : . . And when his fortune fets before him a'l

The

The pomps and pleafures that his soul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.

Syph. Believe me, prince, there's not an African
That traverses our vait Numidian deserts
In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,.
But better practises these boafted. yirtues.
Coarse 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 first friendly bank he throws him down,
Or rests his head upon a rock till morn :
Then rises fresh, pursues 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.

Jub. Thy prejudices, Syphax; won't discerra:
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 sense ;
Where shall we find the man that bears afiction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
Heav'ns! with what strength, what steadiness of mind,
He triumphs in the midst of all his fuff'rings!
How does he rise against a load of woes,
And thank the gods that threw the weight upon him!

Syph. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul : I think the Romans call it stoicism. Had not your royal father thought fo highly Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause, He had not fallen by a slave's hand, inglorious : Nor would his daughter?d army now have lain.

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On Afric's sands disfigur’d with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.

JUB. Why doft thou call my sorrows up afresh?
My father's name brings tears into mine eyes.

SYPH. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills !
JUB. What would'st thou have me do ?
SYPH. Abandon. Cato.

JUB. Syphax, I thould be more than twice an orphan By such a loss.

Syph. Ay, there's the tie that binds you !
You long to call him father. Marcia's charms
Work in your heart unseen, and plead for Cato.
No wonder you are deaf to all I say.

JUB. 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.

Syph. 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 bleflings,
Which you:drew from him in your last farewel?
Still muft I cherish the dear, fad remembrance,
At once to torture and to please my foul.
The good old king at parting wrong my hand,
(His eyes brimful of tears) then fighing cry'd,
Pry'thee: be careful of my son !-His grief
Swelld up so high, he could not utter more.

JUB. Alas, the story.melts away my soul.
That best of fathers ! how shall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him?
Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart.

Jur.

JUB. His counsels bad me yield to thy directions :
Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms,
Vent all thy passion, and I'll stand its shock,
Calm and unruffled as a summer sea,
When not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface.

SYPH. Alas, my prince, I'd guide you to your safety..
JUB. I do believe thou wouldst; but tell me how?
Syph. Fly from the fate that follows Cæsar's foes.
JUB. My father scorn'd to do it.
Syph. And therefore dy'd.

JUB. Better to die ten thousand deaths,
Than wound my

honour. Syph. Rather say your love.

JUB. Syphax, I've promis’d to preserve my temper ; Why wilt thou urge me to confess a fiame I long have ftifled and would fain conceal.? Syph. Believe me, prince, tho' hard to co

conquer love,
'Tis easy to divert and break its force;
Absence might cure it, or a second mistress
Light up another flame, and put out this.
The glowing dames of Zama's royal court
Have faces flush'd 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 these, my prince, you'd soon forget
The pale, unripen'd beauties of the North.

Jul. 'Tis not a set of features, or complexion,
The tincture of a skin that I admire,
Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye,

the sense. The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her sex : True, she is fair (oh, how divinely fair !)

and palls upon

But still the lovely maid improves her charms,
With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom,
And fanctity of manners. Cato's soul
Shines out in ev'ry thing the acts or speaks,
While winning mildness and attractive siniles
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

Caro,

praise !

CHAP. VIII.

CATO's SOLILOQUY.
It mult le fo-Plato, thou reason't well-
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality ?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward'horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the foul
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

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