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GENAQ

VICTRIX

C

AT O.

ACT I. SCENE I.

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HE Dawn is over-caft, the Mourning low'rs,

And heavenly in Clouds brings on the Day..
The great, th'important Day, big with
the Fate,

Of Cato and of Rome----Our Father's
Death

up all the Guilt of Civil War,

And close the Scene of Blood. Already Cafar
Has ravaged more than half the Globe, and fees
Mankind grown thin by his deftructive Sword:
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!

Marc. Thy fteddy Temper, Portius,

Can look on Guilt, Rebellion, Fraud, and Cafar,

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In the calm Lights of mild Philofophy;
I'm tortured, even to Madness, when I think
On the proud Victor: ev'ry time he's named
Pharfalia rifes to my View! I fee

Th' infulting Tyrant prancing o'er the Field
Strow'd with Rome's Citizens, and drench'd in Slaughter,
His Horfe's Hoofs wet with Patrician Blood!
Oh Portius, is there not fome chofen Curse,
Some hidden Thunder in the Stores of Heav'n,
Red with uncommon Wrath, to blast the Man,
Who owes his Greatnefs to his Country's Ruin?
For. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious Greatnefs,
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 Suff'rings fhine, and spread a Glory round him,
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the Caufe

Of Honour, Virtue, Liberty, and Rome.
His Sword ne'er fell but on the Guilty Head;
Oppreffion, Tyranny, and Power ufurp'd,
Draw all the Vengeance of his Arm upon 'em.

Marc. Who knows not this? But what can Cato do

Against a World, a bafe degen'rate World,

That courts the Toke, and bows the Neck to Cafar?
Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms

A poor Epitome of Roman Greatness,

And, cover'd with Numidian Guards, dire&s
A feeble Army, and an empty Senate,
Remnants of mighty Battles fought in vain.

By Heav'ns, fuch Virtues, join'd with fuch Success,
Distract my very Soul: Our Father's Fortune
Wou'd almost tempt us to renounce his Precepts.

Por. Remember what our Father oft has told us :
The Ways of Heav'n are dark and intricate;
Puzzled in Mazes, and perplex'd with Errors;

Our

Our Understanding traces 'em in vain,

Loft and bewilder'd in the fruitless Search ;

Nor fees with how much Art the Windings run,
Nor where the Regular Confufion ends.

Mare. Thefe are Suggestions of a Mind at Eafe:
Oh Portius, didft thou taste but half the Griefs

That wring my Soul, thou cou'dft not talk thus coldly.
Paffion unpity'd, and fuccefsless Love,
Plant Daggers in my Heart, and aggravate
My other Griefs. Were but my Lucia kind! --
Por. Thou feeft not that thy Brother is thy Rival:
But I must hide it, for I know thy Temper.
Now, Marcus, now, thy Virtue's on the Proof:
Put forth thy utmoft Strength, work ev'ry Nerve,
And call up all thy Father in thy Soul:

To quell the Tyrant Love, and guard thy Heart
On this weak Side, where moft our Nature fails,
Would be a Conqueft worthy Cato's Son.

Marc. Portius, the Counfel which I cannot take,
Inftead of Healing, but upbraids my Weaknefs.
Rid me for Honour plunge into a War
Of thickest Foes, and rush on certain Death,
Then fhalt thou see 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 Thirst of Greatness
'Tis fecond Life, it grows into the Soul,
Warms ev'ry Vein, and beats in ev'ry Pulse,
I feel it here: My Refolution melts ----

Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian Prince!
With how much Care he forms himself to Glory,
And breaks the Fierceness of his Native Temper
To copy out our Father's bright Example.
He loves our Sifter Marcia, greatly loves her,
His Eyes, his Looks, his Actions all betray it:
But still the fmother'd Fondness burns within him.

[Afide.

When

When moft it fwells, and labours for a Vent,
The Sense of Honour and Defire of Fame
Drive the big Passion back into his Heart.
What! fhall an African, fhall Juba's Heir
Reproach great Cato's Son, and fhew the World
A Virtue wanting in a Roman Soul?

Marc. Portius, no more! your Words leave Stings be

hind 'em.

When-e'er did Juba, or did Portius, fhew

A Virtue that has caft me at a Distance,

And thrown me out in the Purfuits of Honour!
Por. Marcus, I know thy gen'rous Temper well;
Fling but th' Appearance of Dishonour on it,
It straight takes Fire, and mounts into a Blaze.

Marc. A Brother's Suff'rings claim a Brother's Pity.
Por. Heav'n knows I pity thee: Behold my Eyes
Ev'n whilft I fpeak---Do they not swim in Tears?
Were but my Heart as naked to thy View,
Marcus would fee it bleed in his Behalf.

Marc. Why then dost treat me with Rebukes, inftead
Of kind condoling Cares, and friendly Sorrow?
Por. O Marcus, did I know the Way to cafe
Thy troubled Heart, and mitigate thy Pains,

Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it.

Marc. Thou beft of Brothers, and thou best of
Friends!

Pardon a weak diftemper'd Soul, that fwells
With fudden Gufts, and finks as foon in Calms,
The Sport of Paffions:----But Sempronius comes:
He must not find this Softness hanging on me.

[Exit.

SCENE

SCENE II.

Enter Sempronius.

Semp. Confpiracies no fooner fhou'd be form'd
Than executed. What means Portius here?
I like not that cold Youth. I must diffemble,
And speak a Language foreign to my Heart.

Sempronius, Portius.

Good Morrow, Portius! let us once embrace,
Once more embrace; whilft yet we both are free.
To-morrow fhou'd we thus exprefs our Friendship,
Each might receive a Slave into his Arms:
This Sun perhaps, this Morning Sun's the laft,
That e'er fhall rife in Roman Liberty.

Por. My Father has this Morning call'd together
To this poor Hall his little Roman Senate,
(The leavings of Pharfalia) to confult

If yet he can oppose the mighty Torrent

[Afide.

That bears down Rome, and all her God's, before it,
Or muft at length give up the World to Cafar.
Semp. Not all the Pomp and Majesty of Rome
Can raife her Senate more than Cato's Prefence.
His Virtues render our Affembly awful,
They strike with fomething like religious Fear,
And make ev❜n Cafar tremble at the Head
Of Armies flufh'd with Conqueft. O my Portius,
Could I but call that wond'rous Man my Father,
Wou'd but thy Sifter Marcia be propitious
To thy Friend's Vows, I might be blefs'd indeed!

Por. Alas! Sempronius, wou'dst thou talk of Love
To Marcia, whilft her Father's Life's in Danger?
Thou migh'ft as well court the pale trembling Veftal,
When the beholds the Holy Flame expiring.

Semp.

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