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Enter Juba. Jub. I blush, and am confounded to appear Before thy presence, Cato. Cato. What's thy crime? Jub. I'm a Numidian. [Roman soul. Cato. And a brave one too. Thou hast a Jub. Hast thou not heard of my false countrymen ?

Cato. Alas, young prince! Falsehood and fraud shoot up in ev'ry soil, The product of all climes-Rome has its Cæsars. Jub. 'Tis gen'rous thus to comfort the distress'd. [deserv'd: Cato. 'Tis just to give applause where 'tis Thy virtue, prince, has stood the test of fortune, Like purest gold that, tortur'd in the furnace, Comes out more bright, and brings forth all its weight. [heart Jub. What shall I answer thee? My ravish'd O'erflows with secret joy: I'd rather gain Thy praise, O Cato, than Numidia's empire. Enter Portius.

Por. Misfortune on misfortune! grief on grief! My brother Marcus-

Cato. Hah! what has he done? Has he forsook his post? Has he given way? Did he look tamely on, and let 'em pass?

Por. Scarce had I left my father, but I met him

Borne on the shields of his surviving soldiers, Breathless and pale, and cover'd o'er with wounds.

Long at the head of his few faithful friends,
He stood the shock of a whole host of foes,
Till, obstinately brave, and bent on death,
Opprest with multitudes he greatly fell.
Cato. I'm satisfied!

Por. Nor did he fall before

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The mistress of the world, the seat of empire, The nurse of heroes, the delight of gods, That humbled the proud tyrants of the earth, And set the nations free, Rome is no more. O liberty! O virtue! O my country!

Jub. Behold that upright man! Rome fills his eyes

Cato. Whate'er the Roman virtue has sub

du'd,

With tears that flow'd not o'er his own dead son. [Aside. [Caesar's; The sun's whole course, the day and year are For him the self-devoted Decii died, The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquer'd; Even Pompey fought for Cæsar. O my friends! How is the toil of fate, the work of ages, The Roman empire, fallen! O curst ambition! Fallen into Cæsar's hands? Our great forefathers

Had left him nought to conquer but his country. Jub. While Cato lives, Cæsar will blush to

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His sword had pierc'd through the false heart of Rise in my soul-How shall I save my friends?

Syphax.

Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor
Grin in the pangs of death and bite the ground.
Cato. Thanks to the gods, my boy has done
his duty!

-Portius, when I am dead, be sure you place
His urn near mine.

Por. Long may they keep asunder!
Luc. O Cato, arm thy soul with all its pa-
tience;

See where the corpse of thy dead son approaches!
The citizens and senators, alarm'd,
Have gather'd round it, and attend it weeping.
Cato, meeting the Corpse.

Calo. Welcome, my son! here lay him down, my friends,

Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure The bloody corse and count those glorious wounds.

How beautiful is death, when earn'd byvirtue! Who would not be that youth? What pity is it That we can die but once to serve our country! -Why sits this sadness on your brows, my friends?

I should have blush'd if Cato's house had stood Secure, and flourish'd in a civil war. -Portius, behold thy brother, and remember Thy life is not thy own, when Rome demands it.

'Tis now, O Cæsar, I begin to fear thee. Luc. Cæsar has mercy, if we ask it of him. Cato. Then ask it, I conjure you! let him

know

Whate'er was done against him, Cato did it.
And, if you please, that I request it of him,
That I myself, with tears, request it of him,
The virtue of my friends may pass unpunish'd.
Juba, my heart is troubled for thy sake.
Should I advise thee to regain Numidia,
Or seek the conqueror?

Jub. If I forsake thee

Whilst I have life, may Heaven abandon Juba! Cato. Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee aright Will one day make thee great; at Rome, here

after,

'Twill be no crime to have been Cato's friend. Portius, draw near: my son, thou oft has seen Thy sire engag'd in a corrupted state, Wrestling with vice and faction: now thou

seest me

Spent, overpower'd, despairing of success.
Let me advise thee to retreat betimes
To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field,
Where the great Censor toil'd with his own
hands,

And all our frugal ancestors were bless'd
In humble virtues, and a rural life ;

There live retir'd, pray for the peace of Rome, |
Content thyself to be obscurely good.
When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway,
The post of honor is a private station.
Por. I hope my father does not recommend
A life to Portius, that he scorns himself.
Cato. Farewell, my friends! if there be any
of you

Who dare not trust the vietor's clemency,
Know there are ships prepar'd by my command
(Their sails already op'ning to the winds)
That shall convey you to the wish'd-for port.
Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you?
The conqueror draws near. Once more farewell!
If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet
In happier climes, and on a safer shore,
Where Cæsar never shall approach us more.
[Pointing to his dead Son.
There the brave youth, with love of virtue fir'd,
Who greatly in his country's cause expir'd,
Shall know he conquer'd. The firm patriot there,
Who made the welfare of mankind his care,
Tho' still by faction, vice, and fortune crost,
Shall find the gen'rous labor was not lost.

ACT V.

[Exeunt.

Cato solus, sitting in a thoughtful Posture; in his Hand Plato's Book on the Immortality of the Soul.

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Why am I disobey'd?
Were not my orders that I would be private?

Por. Alas, my father!

What means this sword, this instrument of death!

Let me convey it hence.

Cato. Rash youth, forbear!

Por. O, let the pray'rs, th' entreaties of your Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from friends, you!

Cato. Wouldst thou betray me? Wouldst
thou give me up,

A slave, a captive into Caesar's hands?
Retire, and learn obedience to a father,
Or know young man !—

Por. Look not thus sternly on me;
You know I'd rather die than disobey you.

Cato. 'Tis well! again I'm master of myself.
Now, Cæsar, let thy troops beset our gates,
well-O'erspread the sea, and stop up ev'ry port;
And bar each avenue; thy gathering fleets
Cato shall open to himself a passage,
And mock thy hopes-

A drawn Sword on the Table by him.
Ir must be so-Plato, thou reason'st
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 soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
"Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
"Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man:
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Thro'what newscenes and changes mustwe pass?
The wide, th'un bounded prospect lies before me,
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above
(And that there is all nature cries aloud
Through all her works), he must delight in vir-
tue;

And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when! or where!--this world was made for
Cæsar.

I'm weary of conjectures-this must end 'em.
[Laying his Hand on his Sword.
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 soul, 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 amid the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?

Por. O Sir! forgive your son,
Whose grief hangs heavy on him. O my father!
How am I sure it is not the last time
I e'er shall call you so? Be not displeas'd,
O, be not angry with me whilst I weep,
And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you
To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul!

Cato. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful.
Weep not, my son, all will be well again:
[Embracing him.
The righteous gods, whom I have sought to
please,

Will succour Cato, and preserve his children.
Por. Your words give comfort to my droop-

ing heart.

Cato. Portius, thou mayst rely upon my con-
duct;

Thy father will not act what misbecomes him.
But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting
Among thy father's friends; see them embark'd,
And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them.
My soul is quite weigh'd down with care, and
asks

The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.

[Exit. Por. My thoughts are more at ease, my heart

revives.

Enter Marcia.
O Marcia, O my sister, still there's hope
Our father will not cast away a life
So needful to us all, and to his country.

He is retir'd to rest, and seems to cherish
Thoughts full of peace. He has dispatch'd me
hence

With orders that bespeak a mind compos'd,
And studious for the safety of his friends.
Marcia, take care that none disturb his slum-
bers.

[Exit. Mar. O ye immortal powers that guard the just,

Watch round his couch, and soften his repose,
Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul
With easy dreains; remember all his virtues!
And show mankind that goodness is your care.
Enter Lucia.

Luc. Where is your father, Marcia, where is
Cato!

Mar. Lucia, speak low, he is retir'd to rest.
Lucia, I feel a gentle dawning hope
Rise in my soul. We shall be happy still.
Luc. Alas! I tremble when I think on Cato!
In every view, in every thought I tremble!
Cato is stern and awful as a god;
He knows not how to wink at human frailty,
Or pardon weakness that he never felt.

Mar. Tho' stern and awful to the foes of
Rome,

He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild,
Compassionate and gentle to his friends.
Fill'd with domestic tenderness, the best,
The kindest father I have ever found him,
Easy and good, and bounteous to my wishes.
Luc. "Tis his consent alone can make us
bless'd.

Marcia, we are both equally involv'd
In the same intricate, perplex'd distress.
The cruel hand of fate, that has destroy'd
Thy brother Marcus, whom we both lament-
Mar. And ever shall lament, unhappy youth!
Luc. Has set my soul at large, and now I stand
Loose of my vow. But who knows Cato's
thoughts?

Who knows how yet he may dispose of Portius,
Or how he has determin'd of thyself?

Mar. Let him but live, commit the rest to
Heaven.

Enter Lucius.

Luc. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous

man!

O Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father;
Some power invisible supports his soul,
And bears it up in all its wonted greatness.
A kind refreshing sleep is fallen on him:
I saw him stretch'd at ease, his fancy lost
In pleasing dreams: as I drew near his couch,
He smil'd, and cried, Cæsar, thou canst not
hurt me.

On the high point of yon bright western tower
We ken them from afar; the setting sun
Plays on their shining arms and burnish'd hel-
mets,

And covers all the field with gleams of fire.
Luc. Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy
father,

Cæsar is still dispos'd to give us terms,
And waits at distance till he hears from Cato.
Enter Portius.

Portius,thylooks speak somewhat of importance,
What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks I see
Unusual gladness sparkling in thine eyes.

Por. As I was hasting to the port, where now
My father's friends, impatient for a passage,
Accuse the ling'ring winds, a sail arriv'd
From Pompey's son, who thro' the realms of
Spain

Calls out for vengeance on his father's death,
And rouses the whole nation up to arms.
Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome
Assert her rights, and claim her liberty.
But, hark! what means that groan? O, give

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Luc. O, Portius,

Hide ail the horrors of thy mournful tale,
And let us guess the rest.

Por. I've rais'd him up,
[faint,
And plac'd him in his chair, where, pale and
He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from
him,

Demands to see his friends. His servantsweeping,
Obsequious to his order, bear him hither.

Mar.O Heaven assist me in this dreadful hour,
To pay the last sad duties to my father!
Jub. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O
Cæsar !

Luc. Now is Rome fallen indeed!

Cato brought in on a Chair.

Cato. Here set me down

[bark'd? Portius, come near me-Are my friends emCan any thing be thought of for their service? Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain.

Mar. His mind still labors with some dread--O Lucius, art thou here?-thou art too good

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Let this our friendship live between our children,
Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia.
Alas! poor man, he weeps!-Marcia, my
daughter-

O, bend me forward! Juba loves thee, Marcia:
A senator of Rome, while Rome surviv'd,
Would not have match'd his daughter with a
king;

But Cæsar's arms have thrown down all distinc-
tion:

Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman-I'm sick to death-O, when shall I get loose From this vain world, the abode of guilt and sorrow!

And yet, methinks, a beam of light breaks in On my departing soul. Alas! I fear

I've been too hasty. O ye pow'rs, that search The heart of man and weigh his inmost thoughts,

If I have done amiss, impute it not!

The best may err, but you are good and-O!

[Dies.

Luc. 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 corse to Cæsar,
And lay it in his sight, that it may stand
A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath;
Cato, though 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. [Exeunt omnes. LILLO.

$48. FATAL CURIOSITY.

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same,

From age to age his influence sustains [tion Dependent worlds, bestows both life and moOn the dull mass that forms their dusky orbs, Cheers them with heat, and gilds them with his brightness.

Yet man, of jarring elements composed,
Who posts from change to change, from the
first hour

Of his frail being to his dissolution,
Enjoys the sad prerogative above him,

To think, and to be wretched! What is life
To him, that's born to die!-

Or, what the wisdom, whose perfection ends In knowing, we know nothing?

Mere contradiction all! A tragic farce, Tedious, though short, elab'rate without art, Ridiculously sad

Enter Randal.

Where hast been, Randal?

Rand. Not out of Penryn, sir; but to the strand,

To hear what news from Falmouth, since the

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Rand. Some found it so. A noble ship from India.

Ent'ring the harbour, run upon a rock,
And there was lost.

[her? O. Wilm. What 'came of those on board Rand. Some few are saved, but much the greater part,

'Tis thought, are perish'd.

9. Wilm. They are past the fear Of future tempests, or a wreck on shore : Those who escaped, are still exposed to both. Where's your mistress?

Rand. I saw her pass the High-street,

t'wards the Minster.

O. Wilm. She's gone to visit Charlotte.
She doth well.

In the soft bosom of that gentle maid [race
There dwells more goodness than the rigid
Of moral pedants e'er believed, or taught.
With what amazing constancy and truth,
Doth she sustain the absence of our son,
Whom more than life she loves! How shun`
for him,
[and great;
Whom we shall ne'er see more, the rich
Who own her charms, and sigh to make her
happy!
[friend,
Since our misfortunes we have found no
None who regarded our distress, but her;
And she, by what I have observed of late,
Is wearied, or exhausted. Cursed condition!
To live a burden to one only friend,

And blast her youth with our contagious woe! Who, that had reason, soul, or sense, would bear it

A moment longer? Then this honest wretch!—
I must dismiss him-Why should I detain
A grateful, gen'rous youth, to perish with me?
His service may procure him bread elsewhere,
Though I have none to give him.-Pr'ythee,
How long hast thou been with me? [Randal,
Rand. Fifteen years.

I was a very child when first ye took me,
To wait upon your son, my dear young master.
I oft have wish'd I'd gone to India with him,
Though you, desponding, give him o'er for
lost. [OLD WILMOT wipes his eyes.
I am to blame: this talk revives your sorrow
For his long absence.

O. Wilm. That cannot be revived
Which never died.

Rand. The whole of my intent
Was to confess your bounty, that supplied
The loss of both my parents: I was long
The object of your charitable care.

O. Wilm. No more of that: Thou'st served
me longer since

Without reward; so that account is balanced,
Or, rather, I'm thy debtor. I remember,
When Poverty began to show her face
Within these walls, and all my other servants,
Like pamper'd vermin from a falling house,
Retreated with the plunder they had gain'd,
And left me, too indulgent and remiss
For such ungrateful wretches, to be crush'd
Beneath the ruin they had help'd to make,
That you, more good than wise, refused to
leave me.

Rand. Nay, I beseech you, sir!-O. Wilm. With my distress, In perfect contradiction to the world, Thy love, respect, and diligence, increased. Now, all the recompence within my power, Is to discharge thee, Randal, from my hard, Unprofitable service.

Rand. Heaven forbid !

Shall I forsake you in your worst necessity?
Believe me, sir, my honest soul abhors
The barb'rous thought!

O. Wilm. What! canst thou feed on air? I have not left wherewith to purchase food For one meal more!

Rand. Rather than leave you thus, I'll beg my bread, and live on others' bounty, While I serve you.

O. Wilm. Down, down, my swelling heart, Or burst in silence! 'Tis thy cruel fate Insults thee by his kindness-He is innocent Of all the pain it gives thee.-Go thy ways: I will no more suppress thy youthful hopes Of rising in the world.

Rand. 'Tis true, I'm young, And never tried my fortune, or my genius, Which may, perhaps, find out some happy

means,

As yet unthought of, to supply your wants. Ŏ. Wilm. Thou tortur'st me: I hate all obligations

Which I can ne'er return: and who art thou, That I should stoop to take 'em from thy hand?

Care for thyself, but take no thought for me! I will not want thee-trouble me no more.

Rand. Be not offended, sir, and I will go. I ne'er repined at your commands before; But Heaven's my witness, I obey you now, With strong reluctance, and a heavy heart! Farewell, my worthy master!

[Going.

O. Wilm. Farewell!-Stay; As thou art yet a stranger to the world, Of which, alas! I've had too much experience, I should, methinks, before we part, bestow A little counsel on thee.-Dry thy eyes ; If thou weep'st thus, I shall proceed no

farther.

Dost thou aspire to greatness, or to wealth?
Quit books, and the unprofitable search
Of wisdom there, and study humankind:
No science will avail thee without that;
But that obtain'd, thou need'st not any other.
This will instruct thee to conceal thy views,
And wear the face of probity and honour,
Till thou hast gain'd thy end: which must be

ever

Thy own advantage, at that man's expence Who shall be weak enough to think thee Rand. You mock me, sure! [honest.

O. Wilm. I never was more serious. Rand. Why should you counsel, what you scorn'd to practise?

O. Wilm. Because that foolish scorn has been my ruin.

I've been an idiot, but would have thee wiser, And treat mankind, as they would treat thee, Randal,

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Is his own bubble, and undoes himself.
Farewell, and mark my counsel, boy. [Exit.
Rand. Amazement !

Is this the man I thought so wise and just?
What, teach and counsel me to be a villain!
Sure grief has made him frantic, or some fiend
Assumed his shape: I shall suspect my senses.
High-minded he was ever, and improvident,
But pitiful, and generous, to a fault.
Pleasure he loved, but honour was his idol.
O fatal change! O horrid transformation!
So a majestic temple, sunk to ruin,
Becomes the loathsome shelter and abode
Of lurking serpents, toads, and beasts of prey;
And scaly dragons hiss, and lions roar,
Where wisdom taught, and music charm'd
before.
[Exit.

SCENE II.

Charlotte's House.

Enter Charlotte and Maria.

Char. What terror and amazement must Who die by shipwreck!

Mar. 'Tis a dreadful thought!

[they feel

Char. Ay; is it not, Maria ?-To descend,
Alas! had we no sorrows of our own,
Living, and conscious, to the wat'ry tomb!
The frequent instances of others' woe,
But you forget you promised me to sing.
Must give a gen'rous mind a world of pain.
Though cheerfulness and I have long been
strangers,

Harmonious sounds are still delightful to me.
There's sure no passion in the human soul,
But finds its food in music. I would hear
The song, composed by that unhappy maid,
Whose faithful lover 'scaped a thousand perils
And after all, being arrived at home,
From rocks and sands, and the devouring deep;
Passing a narrow brook, was drowned there,
And perish'd in her sight.

SONG-Maria.

Cease, cease, heart-easing tears!
Adieu, you flatt'ring fears,
Which seven long tedious years
Taught me to bear.
Tears are for lighter woes;
Fear no such danger knows,
As fate remorseless shows,
Endless despair!

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