SYPHAX, General of the Numidians. Mr. CIBBER.
SCENE, a large Hall in the Governor's Palace of Utica.
HE dawn is over-caft, the morning lowers,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, th' important day; big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome.-Our father's death
Would fill up all the guilt of civil war,
And close the scene of blood. Already Cæfar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and fees
Mankind grown thin by his deftructive fword:
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting,
To form new battles, and fupport his crimes.
Ye Gods, what havock does ambition make
Among your works!
Thy fteddy temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philofophy;
I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madnefs, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he 's nam'd
Pharfalia rises to my view-I fee
Th' infulting tyrant prancing o'er the field
Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in flaughter, His horfe's hoofs wet with Patrician blood.
Oh Portius, is there not fome chofen curfe,
Some hidden thunder in the ftores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin ?
Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,
And mixt with too much horror to be envy'd :
How does the luftre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness!
His fufferings fhine, and fpread a glory round him;
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His fword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppreffion, tyranny, and power ufurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them.
MAK CU S.
Who knows not this? But what can Cato do
Against a world, a bafe degenerate world,
That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæfar?
Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms
A poor epitome of Roman greatness,
And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs
A feeble army, and an empty fenate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
By heavens, fuch virtues, join`d with such success,
Diftract my very foul: onr father's fortune
Would almoft tempt us to renounce his precepts.
Remember what our father oft has told us:
The ways of heaven are dark and intricate,
Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors;
Our understanding traces them in vain,
Loft and bewilder'd in the fruitless fearch;
Nor fees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confufion ends.
Thefe are fuggeftions of a mind at ease: Oh Portius, didft thou taste but half the griefs That wring my foul, thou could'st not talk thus coldly. Paffion unpity'd and fuccefslefs love
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind !—
Thou fee'ft not that thy brother is thy rival: But I must hide it, for I know thy temper.
[Afide.
Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue 's on the proof:
Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve,
And call up all thy father in thy foul:
To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart
On this weak fide, where moft our nature fails,
Would be a conqueft worthy Cato's fon.
Portius, the counfel which I cannot take,
Inftead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Bid me for honour plunge into a war
Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death,
Then fhalt thou fee that Marcus is not flow
To follow glory, and confefs his father.
Love is not to be reafon'd down, or loft
In high ambition, and a thirft of greatnefs;
'Tis fecond life, it grows into the foul,
Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse.
I feel it here: my refolution melts-
Behold young Juba, the Numidian Prince !
With how much care he forms himself to glory,
And breaks the fiercenefs of his native temper
To copy out our father's bright example.
He loves our fifter Marcia, greatly loves her;
His eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it :
But ftill the fmother'd fondnefs burns within him.
When most it fwells and labours for a vent,
The fenfe of honour and defire of fame
Drive the big paffion back into his heart.
What! fhall an African, fhall Juba's heir,
Reproach great Cato's fon, and fhow the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman foul?
Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them. When-e'er did Juba, or did Portius, show
A virtue that has caft me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour ?
PORTIUS.
Marcus, I know thy generous temper well;
Fling but th' appearance of dishonour on it,
It ftrait takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.
A brother's fufferings claim a brother's pity.
|