O'ercaft with gloomy cares and difcontent;

Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me,
What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns,
And turn thine eyes thus coldly on thy prince?

SYPH. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts,
Or carry fimiles and funthine in my face,
When dilcontent fits heavy at my heart:
I have not yet fo much the Roman in me.

Jus. Why doft thou caft out such ungen'rous terms
Against the lords and fov'reigns of the world?

Doft thou not fee mankind fall down before them,
And own the force of their fuperior virtue?
Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,

Amidft our barren rocks and burning fands,

That does not tremble at the Roman name?

SYPH. Gods! where's the worth that fets this people up Above your own Numidia's tawny fons?

Do they with tougher finews bend the bow?
Or flies the jav❜lin fwifter to its mark,
Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm!
Who like our active African instructs
The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand?
Or guides in troops th' embattled elephant
Loaden with war? Thefe, these are arts, my prince;
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.

JUB. Thefe are all virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are plac'd in bones and nerves.
A Roman foul is bent on higher views:
To civilize the rude unpolifh'd world,
To lay it under the reftraint of laws;
To make man mild, and fociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious favage
With wifdom, difcipline, and lib'ral arts;
'Th' embellishments of life; virtues like thefe,

Make

Make human nature fhine, reform the foul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.

SY PH. Patience, jutt Heav'ns!-Excuse an old man's
warmth,

What are these wond'rous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and this smooth behaviour,
That render man thus tractable and tame ?
Are they not only to disguise our paffions,
To fet our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the starts and fallies of the foul,
And break off all its commerce with the tongue ?
In fhort, to change us into other creatures,
Than what our nature and the gods defign'd us?

JUB. To strike thee dumb: turn up thy eyes to Cato!
There may'ft thou fee to what a godlike height
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man.

While good, and jut, and anxious for his friends,
He's till feverely bent against himself;
Renouncing fleep, and reft, and food, and ease,
He ftrives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat:
And when his fortune fets before him all
The pomps and pleasures that his foul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.

SYPH. Believe me, prince, there's not an African
That traverfes our vaft Numidian deserts

In queft of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practifes thefe boafted virtues.
Coarfe are his meals the fortune of the chafe ;
Amidst the running ftream he flakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and at the approach of night
On the first friendly bank he throws him down,
Or refts his head upon a rock till morn,
Then rifes fresh, pursues his wonted game,
And if the following day he chance to find

A new

A new repaft, or an untasted spring,

Bleffes his ftars, and thinks it luxury.

JUB. Thy prejudices, Syphax, wont difcern-
What virtues grow from ignorance and choice,
Or 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 fhall we find the man that bears affiction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
Heav'ns! with what ftrength, what steadiness of mind,
He triumphs in the midft of all his fuff'rings!
How does he rife against a load of woes,

And thank the gods that threw the weight upon him!
SYPH. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of foul:
I think the Romans call it ftoicilm:

Had not your royal father thought fo highly
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's caufe,
He had not fall'n by a flave's hand, inglorious;
Nor would his flaughter'd army now have lain
On Afric's fands, disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
JUB. Why doft thou call my forrows up afresh?
My father's name brings tears into mine eyes.
SYPH. O, that you'd profit by your father's ills!
JUB. What would'ft thou have me do?

SYPH. Abandon Cato.

JUB. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan By fuch a lofs.

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

JUв. Syphax, your zeal becomes-importunate; I've hitherto permitted it to rave,

And

And talk at large; but learn to keep it in,

Left it should take more freedom than I'll give it.
SY PH. 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 blefings,
Which you drew from him in your last farewell?
Still muft I cherish the dear fad remembrance,
At once to torture and to pleafe my foul.
The good old king at parting wrung my hand,
(His eyes brim full of tears), then fighing, cried,
Prithee be careful of my fon!-His grief
Swell'd up fo high, he could not utter more.
JUB. Alas! the ftory melts away my foul!
That beft of fathers! how fhall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him?

SYPH. By laying up his counfels in your heart. JUB. His counfels bade me yield to thy directions: Then, Syphax, chide me in severeft terms, Vent all thy paffion, and I'll stand its shock,. Calm and unruffled as a fummer fea,

When not a breath of wind flies o'er its furface.

SYPH. Alas! my prince, I'd guide you to your fafety!"
JUB. I do believe thou would'ft; but tell me how.
SYPH. Fly from the fate that follows Cæfar's foes.
JUB. My father fcorn'd to do it.

SYPH. And therefore died.

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

SYPH. Rather say your love.

JUB. Syphax, I've promis'd to preferve my temper:

Why wilt thou urge me to confefs a flame

I long have ftifled, and would fain conceal?

SYPH. Believe me prince, though hard to conquer love, Tis cafy to divert and break its force:

L

Abfence

Abfence might cure it, or a fecond mistress
Light up another flame, and put out this.
The glowing dames of Zama's royal court
Have faces flufh'd with more exalted charms;
The fun that rolls his chariot o'er their heads
Works sup more fire and colour in their cheeks;
Were you with thefe, my prince, you'd foon forget
The pale, unripen'd beauties of the north.

JUB. 'Tis not a fet of features, or complexion
The tincture of a fkin that I admire.
Beauty foon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the fenfe.
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her sex:
True, fhe is fair (O, how divinely fair!)
But ftill the lovely maid improves her charms
With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom,
And fanctity of manners. Cato's foul

Shines out in every thing the acts or speaks,
While winning mildness and attractive smiles
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

praife!

Сато.

CHAP. VIII.

CATO'S SOLILOQUY.

Ir must be fo-Plato, thou reason'st well—
Elfe whence this pleafing hope, this fond defire,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this fecret dread, and inward horrour,
Of falling into nought? Why fhrinks the foul
Back on herself, and ftartles at deftruction?
'Tis the Divinity that ftirs within us;
"Tis Heav'n itself that points out a hereafter,

And