An offering fit for Heaven. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest; Cato knows neither of them; Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.

Enter PORTIUS.

But, ha! Who's this? my son! Why this intrusion!

Were not my orders that I would be private?
Why am I disobeyed?

Por. Alas, my father!

What means this sword, this instrument of death? Let me convey it hence.

Cato. Rash youth, forbear!

Por. Oh, let the prayers, the intreaties of your friends,

Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from you!

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

A slave, a captive into Cæsar'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,
And bar each avenue; thy gathering fleets
O'erspread the sea, and stop up every port;
Cato shall open to himself a passage,
And mock thy hopes-

For. Oh, sir! fo give your son,
Whose grief hangs heavy on him. Oh, my father!
How am I sure it is not the last time

I e'er shall call you so! Be not displeased,
Oh, 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. [Embracing him. Weep not, my son, all will be well again; The righteous gods, whom I have sought to please,

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

heart.

Cato. Portius, thou may'st rely upon my conduct:

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 embarked, And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them. My soul is quite weighed down with care, and asks

The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep. Por. My thoughts are more at ease, my heart revives. [Exit CATO.

Enter MARCIA.

Oh, Marcia! Oh, my sister, still there is hope!
Our father will not cast away a life,
So needful to us all and to his country.
He is retired to rest, and seems to cherish
Thoughts full of peace. He has dispatched ne
hence,

With orders that bespeak a mind composed,

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

Mar. Lucia, speak low, he is retired 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. Though stern and awful to the foes of
Rome,

He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild,
Compassionate and gentle to his friends.
Filled 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
blessed:

Marcia, we both are equally involved
In the same intricate, perplexed distress.
The cruel hand of Fate, that has destroyed
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 determined of thyself?

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

Enter LUCIUS.

Lucius. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtaous man!

Oh, 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 upon him:
I saw him stretched at ease, his fancy lost
In pleasing dreams; as I drew near his couch,
He smiled, and cried, Cæsar, thou can'st not
hurt me.

Mar. His mind still labours with some dreadful thought.

Lucius. Lucia, why all this grief, these floods of sorrow?

Dry up thy tears, my child; we all are safe While Cato lives-his presence will protect us.

Enter JUBA.

Juba. Lucius, the horsemen are returned from viewing

The number, strength, and posture of our foes,
Who now encamp within a short hour's march;
On the high point of yon bright western tower,
We ken them from afar; the setting sun
Plays on their shining arms and burnished hel-

mets,

And covers all the field with gleams of fire.

Lucius. Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father;

Cæsar is still disposed to give us terms,
And waits at distance till he hears from Cato.

Enter PORTIUS.

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

Por. As I was hasting to the port, where now
My father's friends, impatient for a passage,
Accuse the lingering winds, a sail arrived
From Pompey's son, who through 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! Oh, give me way,

And let me fly into my father's presence. [Erit. Lucius. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome,

And in the wild disorder of his soul

Obsequious to his order, bear him hither.

Mar. Oh, Heaven! assist me in this dreadful hour,

To pay the last sad duties to my father!
Juba. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O
Cæsar!

Lucius. Now is Rome fallen indeed!

CATO brought in on a chair.

Cato. Here set me downPortius, come near me-Are my friends embarked?

Can any thing be thought of for their service?
Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain.
Oh, Lucius, art thou here? Thou art too good-
Let this our friendship live between our chil-
dren;

Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia.
Alas! poor man, he weeps! Marcia, my daugh-

ter

Oh, bend me forward! Juba loves thee, Marcia. A senator of Rome, while Rome survived, Would not have matched his daughter with a

king,

But Cæsar's arms have thrown down all distinction;
Whoe'er is brave and virtuous is a Roman-
I'm sick to death-Oh, when shall I get loose
From this vain world, the abode of guilt and sor-
row!

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

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-Oh!

[Dies.

Lucius. There fled the greatest soul that ever

warmed

A Roman breast; oh, Cato! oh, my friend!
Thy will shall be religiously observed.
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.

WHAT odd fantastic things we women do, Who would not listen when young lovers woo, But die a maid, yet have the choice of two! Ladies are often cruel to their cost,

To give you pain, themselves they punish most.

Vows of virginity should well be weigh'd; Too oft they're cancell'd, though in convents made.

Would you revenge such rash resolves—you may Be spiteful-and believe the things we say,

We hate you when you're easily said nay.
How needless, if you knew us, were your fears!
Let love have eyes, and beauty will have ears.
Our hearts are form'd, as you yourselves would
choose,

Too proud to ask, too humble to refuse:
We give to merit, and to wealth we sell,
He sighs with most success that settles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix:
'Tis best repenting in a coach and six.

Blame not our conduct, since we but pursue
These lively lessons we have learnt from you.
Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms,
But wicked wealth usurps the pow'r of charms.
What pains to get the gaudy things you hate,
To swell in shew, and be a wretch in state!
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow;

BY

SINCE fancy by itself is loose and vain,
The wise, by rules, that airy power restrain :
They think those writers mad, who, at their ease,
Convey this house and audience where they please;
Who Nature's stated distan es confound,
And make this spot all soils the sun goes round:
'Tis nothing, when a fancy'd scene we view,
To skip from Covent-Garden to Peru.

But Shakespeare's self transgressed; and shall
each elf,

Each pigmy genius, quote great Shakespeare's self!

What critic dare prescribe what's just and fit,
Or mark out limits for such boundless wit!
Shakespeare could travel through earth, sea, and
air,

And paint out all the powers and wonders there.
In barren deserts he makes Nature smile,
And gives us feasts in his enchanted isle.
Our author does his feeble force confess,
Nor dares pretend such merit to transgress;
Does not such shining gifts of genius share,
And therefore makes propriety his care.

Your treat with studied decency he serves;
Not only rules of time and place preserves,
But strives to keep his character entire,
With French correctness, and with British fire.

This piece, presented in a foreign tongue, When France was glorious, and her monarch young,

An hundred times a crowded audience drew,
An hundred times repeated, still 'twas new.

Pyrrhus, provoked, to no wild rants betrayed,
Resents his gen'rous love, so ill repaid;
Does like a man resent, a prince upbraid.
ilis sentiments disclose a royal mind;
Nor is he known a king from guards behind.

Injured Hermione demands relief; But not from heavy narratives of grief; In conscious majesty her pride is shewn; Born to avenge her wrongs, but not bemoan, Andromache-If in our author's lines, As in the great original she shines, Nothing but from barbarity she fears; Attend with silence, you'll applaud with tears.

SCENE I.-The Palace of PYRRHUS. Enter ORESTES, PYLADES, and Attendants. Orest. O PYLADES! what's life without a friend?

At sight of thee my gloomy soul cheers up;
My hopes revive, and gladness dawns within me.
After an absence of six tedious moons,
How could I hope to find my Pylades,
My joy, my comfort, on this fatal shore?
Even in the court of Pyrrhus! in these realms,
These hated realms, so cross to all my wishes.
Oh, my brave friend! may no blind stroke of fate
Divide us more, and tear me from myself.
Pyl. O prince! O my Orestes! O my friend!—
Thus let me speak the welcome of my heart.
[Embracing.
Since I have gained this unexpected meeting,
Blest be the powers who barred my way to Greece,
And kept me here, e'er since the unhappy day,
When warring winds (Epirus full in view)
Sundered our barks on the loud, stormy main.

Orest. It was, indeed, a morning full of horror! Pyl. A thousand boding cares have racked my soul

In your behalf. Often, with tears, I mourned
The fatal ills, in which your life's involved,
And grudged you dangers which I could not
share.

I feared to what extremes the black despair, That preyed upon your mind, might have betrayed you,

And lest the gods, in pity to your woes, Should hear your prayers, and take the life loathed.

you

But now with joy I see you! The retinue,
And numerous followers, that surround you here,
Speak better fortunes, and a mind disposed
To relish life.

Orest. Alas! my friend, who knows
The destiny to which I stand reserved!
I come in search of an inhuman fair,
And live or die, as she decrees my fate.

Pyl. You much surprise me, prince!-I thought you cured

Of your unpitied, unsuccessful passion.
Why, in Epirus, should you hope to find
Hermione less cruel, than at Sparta ?
I thought her pride, and the disdainful manner
In which she treated all your constant sufferings,
Had broke your fetters, and assured your free-
dom:

Ashamed of your repulse, and slighted vows,
You hated her; you talked of her no more:
Prince, you deceived me.

Orest. I deceived myself.

Do not upbraid the unhappy man, that loves thee.

Thou know'st I never hid my passion from thee; Thou saw'st it in its birth and in its progress;

And when at last the hoary king, her father,
Great Menelaus, gave away his daughter,
His lovely daughter, to the happy Pyrrhus,
The avenger of his wrongs, thou saw'st my grief,
My torture, my despair; and how I dragged,
From sea to sea, a heavy chain of woes.
O Pylades! my heart has bled within me,
To see thee, prest with sorrows not thy own,
Still wandering with me like a banished man;
Watchful, and anxious for thy wretched friend,
To temper the wild transports of my mind,
And save me from myself.

Pyl. Why thus unkind?

Why will you envy me the pleasing task
Of generous love, and sympathizing friendship!
Örest. Thou miracle of truth-but hear me on
When in the midst of my disastrous fate,
I thought how the divine Hermione,
Deaf to my vows, regardless of my plaints,
Gave up herself, in all her charms, to Pyrrhus;
Thou may'st remember, I abhorred her name,
Strove to forget her, and repay her scorn.
I made my friends, and even myself, believe
My soul was freed. Alas! I did not see,
That all the malice of my heart was love.
Triumphing thus, and yet a captive still,
In Greece I landed: and in Greece I found
The assembled princes all alarmed with fears,
In which their common safety seemed concerned
I joined them: for I hoped that war and glory
Might fill my mind, and take up all my thoughts:
And, that my shattered soul, impaired with grief,
Once more would reassume its wonted vigour,
And every idle passion quit my breast.

Pyl. The thought was worthy Agamemnon's