Syph. Not hear me talk! what, when my faith to Juba, My royal master's son, is call'd in question? My prince may strike me dead, and I'll be dumb; But whilst I live I must not hold my tongue, And languish out old age in his displeasure.
Juba. Thou know'st the way too well into my heart. I do believe thee loyal to thy prince.
Syph. What greater instance can I give? I've offer'd To do an action which my soul abhors, And gain you whom you love, at any price.
Juba. Was this thy motive? I have been too hasty.
Syph. And 'tis for this my prince has call'd me traitor.
Juba. Sure thou mistak'st; I did not call thee so.
Syph. You did indeed, my prince, you call'd me traitor.
Nay, further, threaten'd you'd complain to Cato.
Of what, my prince, would you complain to Cato?
That Syphax loves you, and would sacrifice
His life, nay more, his honour, in your service?
Juba. Syphax, I know thou lov'st me; but indeed
Thy zeal for Juba carried thee too far.
Honour's a sacred tie, the law of kings,
The noble mind's distinguishing perfection,
That aids and strengthens virtue where it meets her,
And imitates her actions where she is not:
It ought not to be sported with.
Syph. Believe me, prince, you make old Syphax weep To hear you talk-but 'tis with tears of joy. If e'er your father's crown adorn your brows, Numidia will be blest by Cato's lectures.
Juba. Syphax, thy hand; we'll mutually forget The warmth of youth, and frowardness of age: Thy prince esteems thy worth, and loves thy person. If e'er the sceptre come into my hand, Syphax shall stand the second in my kingdom.
Syph. Why will you o'erwhelm my age with kindness? My joys grow burdensome, I shan't support it. Juba. Syphax, farewell. I'll hence, and try to find Some blest occasion, that may set me right In Cato's thoughts. I'd rather have that man Approve my deeds, than worlds for my admirers. [Exit.
Syph. Young men soon give, and soon forget affronts; Old age is slow in both-A false old traitor! These words, rash boy, may chance to cost thee dear. My heart had still some foolish fondness for thee, But hence, 'tis gone! I give it to the winds:
All hail, Sempronius!
Well, Cato's senate is resolv'd to wait
The fury of a siege, before it yields.
Sem. Syphax, we both were on the verge of fate;
Lucius declar'd for peace, and terms were offer'd
To Cato, by a messenger from Cæsar.
Syph. But how stands Cato?
Sem. Thou hast seen mount Atlas:
Whilst storms and tempests thunder on its brows,
And oceans break their billows at its feet,
It stands unmov'd, and glories in its height:
Such is that haughty man; his tow'ring soul,
'Midst all the shocks and injuries of fortune,
Rises superior, and looks down on Cæsar.
Syph. But what's this messenger?
Sem. I've practis'd with him,
And found a means to let the victor know,
That Syphax and Sempronius are his friends.
But let me now examine in my turn;
Is Juba fix'd?
Syph. Yes-but it is to Cato.
I've tried the force of ev'ry reason on him,
Sooth'd and caress'd; been angry, sooth'd again;
Laid safety, life, and interest in his sight;
But all are vain, he scorns them all for Cato.
Sem. Well, 'tis no matter; we shall do without him.
Syphax, I now may hope, thou hast forsook
Thy Juba's cause, and wishest Marcia mine.
Syph. May she be thine as fast as thou wouldst have her.
But are thy troops prepar'd for a revolt?
Does the sedition catch from man to man,
And run among the ranks?
Marc. Alas, thou talk'st like one that never felt
Th' impatient throbs and longings of a soul,
That pants and reaches after distant good!
A lover does not live by vulgar time:
Believe me, Portius, in my Lucia's absence
Life hangs upon me, and becomes a burden;
And yet, when I behold the charming maid,
I'm ten times more undone; while hope, and fear,
And grief, and rage, and love, rise up at once,
And with variety of pain distract me.
Por. What can thy Portius do to give thee help?
Marc. Portius, thou oft enjoy'st the fair one's presence;
Then undertake my cause, and plead it to her
With all the strength and heat of eloquence
Fraternal love and friendship can inspire.
Tell her thy brother languishes to death,
And fades away, and withers in his bloom;
That he forgets his sleep, and loathes his food,
That youth, and health, and war, are joyless to him;
Describe his anxious days, and restless nights,
And all the torments that thou see'st me suffer.
Por. Marcus, I beg thee give me not an office
That suits with me so ill. Thou know's;
temper.
Marc. Wilt thou behold me sinking in my woes,
And wilt thou not reach out a friendly arm,
To raise me from amidst this plunge of sorrows?
• Por. Marcus, thou canst not ask what I'd refuse;
But here, believe me, I've a thousand reasons-
Marc. I know thou'lt say my passion's out of season, That Cato's great example and misfortunes Should both conspire to drive it from my thoughts. But what's all this to one that loves like me? O Portins, Portius, from my soul I wish Thou didst but know thyself what 'tis to love! Then wouldst thou pity and assist thy brother.
Por. What should I do? If I disclose my passion,
Our friendship's at an end; if I conceal it,
The world will call me false to friend and brother.
Marc. But see, where Lucia, at her wonted hour,
Amid the cool of yon high marble arch,
Enjoys the noon-day breeze! Observe her, Portius;
That face, that shape, those eyes, that heav'n of beauty!
Observe her well, and blame me if thou canst.
Por. She sees us, and advances
And leave you for awhile. Remember, Portius,
Thy brother's life depends upon thy tongue.
Lucia. Did not I see your brother Marcus here?
Why did he fly the place, and shun my presence?
Por. Oh, Lucia, language is too faint to show
His rage of love; it preys upon his life;
He pines, he sickens, he despairs, he dies!
Lucia. How wilt thou guard thy honour, in the shock
Of love and friendship? Think betimes, my Portius,
Think how the nuptial tie, that might ensure
Our mutual bliss, would raise to such a height
Thy brother's griefs, as might perhaps destroy him.
Por. Alas, poor youth! What dost thou think, my
His gen'rous, open, undesigning heart
Has begg'd his rival to solicit for him!
Then do not strike him dead with a denial.
Lucia. No, Portius, no; I see thy sister's tears,
Thy father's anguish, and thy brother's death,
In the pursuit of our ill-fated loves:
And, Portius, here I swear, to heav'n I swear,
To heav'n, and all the powers that judge mankind,
Never to mix my plighted hands with thine,.
While such a cloud of mischief hangs upon us;
But to forget our loves, and drive thee out
From all my thoughts as far as I am able.
Por. What hast thou said? - I'm thunderstruck-recall Those hasty words, or I am lost for ever.
Lucia. Has not the vow already pass'd my lips?
The gods have heard it, and 'tis seal'd in heav'n.
May all the vengeance that was ever pour'd
On perjur'd heads o'erwhelm me if I break it!
Por. Fix'd in astonishment, I gaze upon thee,
Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav'n,
Who pants for breath, and stiffens, yet alive,
In dreadful looks; a monument of wrath!
Lucia. Think, Portius, think thou see'st thy dying
Stabb'd at his heart, and all besmear'd with blood,
Storming at heav'n and thee! Thy awful sire
Sternly demands the cause, th' accursed cause
That robs him of his son:-farewell, my Portius!
Farewell, though death is in the word-for ever!
Por. Thou must not go; my soul still hovers o'er thee,
And can't get loose.
Lucia. If the firm Portius shake
To hear of parting, think what Lucia suffers!
Por. "Tis true, unruffled and serene, I've met
The common accidents of life; but here
Such an unlook'd-for storm of ills falls on me,
It beats down all my strength, I cannot bear it.
We must not part.
Lucia. What dost thou say? Not part!
Hast thou forgot the vow that I have made?
Are not there heavens, and gods, that thunder o'er us?
But see, thy brother Marcus bends this way;
I sicken at the sight. Once more, farewell,,
Farewell, and know thou wrong'st me, if thou think'st,
Ever was love, or ever grief, like mine.
Marc. Portius, what hopes? How stands she? am I
Por. What wouldst thou have me say?
Marc. Thy downcast looks, and thy disorder'd
Tell me my fate. I ask not the success
My cause has found.
Por. I'm griev'd I undertook it.
Marc. What, does the barbarous maid insult my heart,
My aching heart, and triumph in my pains?
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