any more about it; you had better give it up, you had indeed.

Enter FOOTMAN.

Foot. Your honour's cap and slippers. Sir C. Lay down my cap, and here take these shoes off. [He takes them off, and leaves them at a distance.] Indeed, my Lady Rackett, you make me ready to expire with laughing. Ha, ha!

Lady R. You may laugh, but I am right notwithstanding.

Sir C. How can you say so?

Lady R. How can you say otherwise? Sir C. Well, now mind me, Lady Rackett, we can now talk of this in good humour; we can discuss it coolly.

Lady R. So we can, and it is for that reason I venture to speak to you. Are these the ruffles I bought for you?

Sir C. They are, my dear. Lady R. They are very pretty. But, indeed, you played the card wrong.

Sir C. No, no, listen to me; the affair was thus: Mr. Jenkins having never a club leftLady R. Mr. Jenkins finessed the club. Sir C. [Peevishly.] How can you? Ludy R. And trumps being all out— Sir C. And we playing for the odd trickLady R. If you had minded your gameSir C. And the club being the bestLady R. If you had led your diamondSir C. Mr. Jenkins would, of course, put on a spade.

Lady R. And so the odd trick was sure. Sir C. Damnation! will you let me speak? Lady R. Very well, Sir, fly out again. Sir C. Look here now; here is a pack of cards. Now you shall be convinced. Lady R. You may talk till to-morrow, I know I am right. [Walks about. Sir C. Why then, by all that's perverse, you are the most headstrong- -Can't you look here? here are the very cards.

Lady R. Go on; you'll find it out at last. Sir C. Will you hold your tongue, or not? will you let me show you?-Po! it is all nonsense. [Puts up the cards.] Come, let us go to bed. [Going.] Only stay one moment. [Takes out the cards.] Now command yourself, and you shall have demonstration.

Lady R. It does not signify, Sir. Your head will be clearer in the morning. I choose to go to bed.

Sir C. Stay and hear me, can't you? Lady R. No; my head aches. I am tired of the subject.

Sir C. Why then damn the cards. There, and there, and there. [Throwing them about the room.] You may go to bed by yourself. Confusion seize me if I stay here to be tormented a moment longer. [Putting on his shoes. Lady R. Take your own way, Sir.

Sir C. Now then, I tell you once more, you are a vile woman.

Lady R. Don't make me laugh again, Sir Charles. [Walks and sings. Sir C. Hell and the devil! Will you sit down quietly and let me convince you?" Lady R. I don't choose to hear any more about it.

Sir C. Why then may I perish if ever-a blockhead, an idiot, I was to marry. [Walks about.] Such provoking impertinence! [She sits down.] Damnation! I am so clear in the thing. She is not worth my notice. [Sits down, turns his back, and looks uneasy.] I'll take no more pains about it. [Pauses for some time, then looks ut her.] Is it not strange, that you wont hear

me?

Lady R. Sir, I am very ready to hear you. Sir C. Very well then, very well; you remember how the game stood.

[Draws his chair near her. Lady R. I wish you would untie my necklace, it hurts me.

Sir C. Why can't you listen?

Lady R. I tell you it hurts me terribly.

Sir C. Death and confusion! [Moves his chair away.]-There is no bearing this. [Looks at her angrily.] It wont take a moment, if you will but listen. [Moves towards her.] Can't you see, that, by forcing the adversary's hand, Mr. Jenkins would be obliged to

Lady R. [Moving her chair away from him.] Mr. Jenkins had the best club, and never a diamond left.

Sir C. [Rising.] Distraction! Bedlam is not so mad. Be as wrong as you please, Madam. May I never hold four by honours, may 1 lose every thing I play for, may fortune eternally forsake me, if I endeavour to set you right again. [Exit.

Enter MR. and MRS. DRUGGET, WOODLEY, and NANCY.

Mrs. D. Gracious! what's the matter now? Lady R. Such another man does not exist. I did not say a word to the gentleman, and yet he has been raving about the room, and storming like a whirlwind.

Drug. And about a club again! I heard it all.-Come hither, Nancy; Mr. Woodley, she is yours for life.

Mrs. D. My dear, how can you be so passionate?

Drug. It shall be so. Take her for life, Mr. Woodley.

Wood. My whole life shall be devoted to her happiness.

Drug. Mr. Woodley, I recommend my girl to your care. I shall have nothing now to think of, but my greens, and my images, and my shrubbery. Though, mercy on all married folks, say 1; for these wranglings are, I am afraid, what they must all come to. [Exeunt.

While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to
bleed?

E'en when proud Cæsar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state.
As her dead father's rev'rend image past,
The pomp was darken'd and the day o'ercast,
The triumph ceas'd-tears gush'd from every

eye,

The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by:
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæsar's, less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend; be worth like this approv'd,
And show you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she
subdu'd.

Our scenes precariously subsist too long
On French translation and Italian song:
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the
stage;

Be justly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

ACT I.

'SCENE I.-A Hall.

Enter PORTIUS and MARCUS.

Por. The dawn is overcast, 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
Cæsar
[sees
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:
Should he go farther, numbers would be want-
ing

To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make
Among your works!

Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar, In the calm lights of mild philosophy ; I'm tortur'd e'en to madness, when I think On the proud victor: every time he's nam'd Pharsalia rises to my view!--I see

Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter;

His horses' hoofs wet with patrician blood!
Oh, Portius! is not there some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder, in the stores of Heaven,
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 mix'd with too much horror to be envied.
How does the lustre of our father's actions,
Through the dark clouds of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant
brightness!
[him;
His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.

Marc. Who knows not this? But what can
Cato do
Against a world, a base, degen'rate world,

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 conquest worthy Cato's son.

Marc. Alas, the counsel which I cannot take, Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness. Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost In high ambition and a thirst of greatness; 'Tis second life, that grows into the soul, Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse: I feel it here: my resolution melts

Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian

When most it swells, and labours for a vent, The sense of honour, and desire of fame, Drive the big passion back into his heart. What, shall an African, shall Juba's heir, Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world A virtue wanting in a Roman soul?

Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them.

Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius show
A virtue that had cast me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour ?
Por. Oh, Marcus! did I know the way to

Enter SEMPRONIUS.

form'd

Sem. Conspiracies no sooner should be Than executed. What means Portius here? I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble, And speak a language foreign to my heart.

I've sounded my Numidians, man by man,
And find them ripe for a revolt: they all
Complain aloud of Cato's discipline,

And wait but the command to change their

master,

Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste;

ship,

Each might receive a slave into his arms.
This sun, perhaps, this morning sun's the last,
That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty.

Por. My father has this morning call'd together

To this poor hall, his little Roman senate,
(The leavings of Pharsalia,) to consult
If he can yet oppose the mighty torrent
That bears down Rome and all her gods before
it,

Or must at length give up the world to Cæsar.
Sem. Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome
Can raise her senate more than Cato's presence.
His virtues render our assembly awful,
They strike with something like religious fear,
And make even Cæsar tremble, at the head
Of armies flush'd with conquest. Oh, my
Portius!

Could I but call that wondrous man my father,
Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious
To thy friend's vows, I might be bless'd indeed!
Por. Alas, Sempronius! wouldst thou talk
of love

To Marcia, whilst her father's life's in danger? Thou might'st as well court the pale, trembling vestal,

When she beholds the holy flame expiring.
Sem. The more I see the wonders of thy race,
The more I'm charm'd. Thou must take heed,
my Portius;

The world has all its eyes on Cato's son;
Thy father's merit sets thee up to view,
And shows thee in the fairest point of light,
To make thy virtues or thy faults conspicuous.
Por. Well dost thou seem to check my ling'-
ring here

On this important hour.—I'll straight away,
And while the fathers of the senate meet
In close debate, to weigh th' events of war,
I'll animate the soldiers' drooping courage
With love of freedom, and contempt of life;
I'll thunder in their ears their country's cause,
And try to rouse up all that's Roman in them.
"Tis not in mortals to command success,
But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll deserve
it.
[Exit.
Sem. Curse on the stripling! how he apes his
sire!

Ambitiously sententious. -But I wonder
Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian genius
Is well dispos'd to mischief, were he prompt
And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd,
And every moment quicken'd to the course.
Cato has us'd me ill; he has refus'd
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.
Besides, his baffled arms and ruin'd cause
Are bars to my ambition. Cæsar's favour,
That showers down greatness on his friends,
will raise me

To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato,
I claim, in my reward, his captive daughter.
But Syphax comes

Enter SYPHAX.

Syph. Sempronius, all is ready;

From war to war.

Will set the victor thund'ring at our gates.
But, tell me, hast thou yet drawn o'er young
Juba?

That still would recommend thee more to Cæsar,
And challenge better terms.
Syph. Alas! he's lost!

He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full
Of Cato's virtues-But I'll try once more
(For every instant I expect him here,)
If yet I can subdue those stubborn principles
Of faith and honour, and I know not what,
That have corrupted his Numidian temper,
And struck th' infection into all his soul.

Sem. Be sure to press upon him every motive.
Juba's surrender, since his father's death,
Would give up Afric into Cæsar's hands,
And make him lord of half the burning zone.
Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your

senate

Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious; Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern [art. Our frauds, unless they're cover'd thick with

Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal My thoughts in passion ('tis the surest way ;) I'll bellow out for Rome, and for my country, And mouth at Cæsar, till I shake the senate. Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device,

A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in earnest,

Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury! Syph. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct gray

Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste;
Oh, think what anxious moments pass between
The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods!
Oh, 'tis a dreadful interval of time,
Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death!
Destruction hangs on every word we speak,
On every thought, till the concluding stroke
Determines all, and closes our design. [Exit.
Syph. I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason
This headstrong youth, and make him spurn
at Cato.

The time is short; Cæsar comes rushing on
Les!
But hold! young Juba sees me, and approach-

us

Enter JUBA.

Juba. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone, I have observ'd of late thy looks are fallen, O'ercast with gloomy cares and discontent; Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me, What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns,

thoughts,

Or carry smiles and sunshine in my face,
When discontent sits heavy at my heart;
I have not yet so much the Roman in me.
Juba. Why dost thou cast out such ungen-

erous terms

Against the lords and sov'reigns of the world? Dost thou not see mankind fall down before them,

And own the force of their superior virtue? Syph, Gods! Where's the worth that sets these people up

Above your own Numidia's tawny sons?
Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow?
Or flies the jav'lin swifter to its mark,
Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm?
Who like our active African instructs
The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand?
Or guides in troops th' embattled elephant,
Laden with war? These, these, are arts, my
prince.

In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome. Juba. These all are virtues of a meaner rank;

Perfections that are plac'd in bones and nerves.
A Roman soul is bent on higher views,
To make man mild, and sociable to man;
To cultivate the wild, licentious, savage,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.
Turn up thy eyes to Cato;

There may'st thou see to what a godlike height

The Roman virtues lift up mortal man.
While good, and just, and anxious for his
friends,

He's still severely bent against himself:
And when his fortune sets before him all
The pomps and pleasures that his soul can
wish,

His rigid virtue will accept of none.

Syph. Believe me, prince, there's not

African

an

That traverses our vast Numidian deserts
In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises those boasted virtnes.
Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase;
Amidst the running streams he slakes his

thirst;

Toils all the day, and at th' approach of night, On the first friendly bank he throws him

down,

Or rests his head upon a rock till morn;
Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted game;
And if the following day he chance to find
A new repast, or an untasted spring,
Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.
Juba. Thy prejudices, Syphax, wont dis-

cern

What virtues grow from ignorance and choice,
Nor how the hero differs from the bruto.
Where shall we find the man that bears afflic-
tion,

Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
How does he rise against a load of woes,
And thank the gods that threw the weight
upon him!

Syph. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul;

I think the Romans call it stoicism.
Had not your royal father thought so highly
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause,
He had not fall'n by a slave's hand inglorious;
Nor would his slaughter'd armies now have

lain

On Afric's sands, disfigur'd with their wounds,

afresh?

My father's name brings tears into my eyes. Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's

ills!

thus.

[well?

Alas, he's dead! but can you e'er forget The tender sorrows, And repeated blessings, Which you drew from him in your last fareThe good old king, at parting, wrung my hand (His eyes brim full of tears,) then, sighing, cried,

Pr'ythee, be careful of my son!-His grief Swell'd up so high, he could not utter more.

Juba. Alas! thy story melts away my soul! That best of fathers! how shall I discharge The gratitude and duty that I owe him?

Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart.

Juba. His counsels bade me yield to thy direction.

Syph. Alas! my prince, I'd guide you to your safety.

Juba. I do believe thou wouldst but tell me how.

Syph. Fly from the fate that follows Cæsar's

plexion,