Our Scene precariously fubfifts too long On French Translation, and Italian Song.
Dare to have Sense your felves; Affert the Stage, Be juftly warm'd with your own Native Rage. Such Plays alone fhould please a British Ear, As Cato's felf had not disdain'd to hear.
SCENE a large Hall in the Governor's Palace of Utica.
HE Dawn is over-caft, the Morning low'rs, And heavily in Clouds brings on the Day, The great, th' important Day; big with the Fate Our Father's Death Of Cato and of Rome.Would fill 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 Battels, 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 Cæfar, In the calm Lights of mild Philofophy;
I'm tortured, ev'n to Madnefs, when I think On the proud Victor: ev'ry time he's named Pharfalia rifes to my View
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 chosen Curfe, Some hidden Thunder in the Stores of Heav'n, Red with uncommon Wrath, to blast the Man Who owes his Greatness to his Country's Ruin? Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious Greatness, And mixt with too much Horrour 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 Pow'r ufurp'd, Draw all the Vengeance of his Arm 'em.
Marc. Who knows not this? But what can Cato do
Against a World, a base 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 Senate, Remnants of mighty Battels 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 perplext with Errors; 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.
Marc. Thefe are Suggeftions of a Mind at Eafe: Oh Portius, didft thou taste but half the Griefs That wring my Soul, thou cou'dft not talk thus calmly. Paffion unpity'd, and fuccefslefs Love, Plant Daggers in my Heart, and aggravate
My other Griefs. Were but my Lucia kind!
Por. Thou fee'ft 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 most our Nature fails, Would be a Conqueft worthy Cato's Son.
Marc. Portius, the Council which I cannot take, Instead of healing, but upbraids my Weakness. Bid me for Honour plunge into a War
Of thickest Foes, and rufh 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 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 ftill the fmother'd Fondness burns within him. When most it fwells and labours for a Vent, The Sense of Honour and Defire of Fame Drive the big Paffion back into his Heart. What! fhall an Affrican, fhall Juba's Heir Reproach great Cato's Son, and fhow the World B 2
« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó » |