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[Gives him a dagger.
The only present I can make thee now:
And, next the honourable means of life,
I would bestow the honest means of death,

Abo. I cannot stay to thank you. Only this,
The villain, Hotman, as I stagger'd hither,

Arm'd with a sword, I met. I wrench'd it from

bim,

Collecting all my strength; and in his heart,
Stain'd to the hilt, I left it.

O, my dear honour'd master, if there is

A being after this, I shall be yours

In the next world: your faithful slave again.

This is to try.

I will not say farewell:

For you must follow me.

Oro. In life and death,

[Stabs himself.

[Dies.

The guardian of my honour! Follow thee!

I should have gone before thee: then, perhaps,
Thy fate had been prevented.

Why, why, you gods! why am I so accurs'd,
That it must be a reason of your wrath"
A guilt, a crime sufficient to the fate
Of any one, but to belong to me?

My friend has found it, and my wife will soon:
My wife! the very fear's too much for life,-
I can't support it. Where?-Imoinda! Oh!
[Going out, she meets him, running into his arms.
Thou bosom softness! down of all my cares!
Thou art disorder'd, pale, and out of breath!"
If fate pursues thee, find a shelter here.
What is it thou wouldst tell me?

Imo. 'Tis in vain to call him villain.
Oro. Call him governor; is it not so?
Imo. There's not another, sure, so great.
"Oro. Villain's the common name of mankind
here,

But his most properly." What! what of him?
"I fear to be resolv'd, and must inquire."
He had thee in his power?

Imo. I blush to think it.

Oro. Blush! to think what?
Imo. That I was in his power.

Oro. He could not use it?

Imo. What can't such men do?

Oro. But did he, durst he?

Imo. What he could he dared.

Imo. O, did you know what I have struggled.

[Shows ABOAN's body on the floor.

Oro. Mangled and torn, resolv'd to give me time
To fit myself for what I must expect,
Groan'd out a warning to me, and expir'd.

Imo. For what you must expect?
Oro. Would that were all!

Imo. What! to be butcher'd thus-
Oro. Just as thou seest.

Imo. By barb'rous hands, to fall at last their
prey.

Oro. I have run the race with honour, shall I now Lag, and be overtaken at the goal?

Imo. No.

Oro. I must look back to thee.

Imo. You shall not need.

I'm always present to your purpose; say,
Which way you would dispose me?

Oro. Have a care.

[Tenderly.

Thou'rt on a precipice, and dost not see
Whither that question leads thee.
I cannot as I would dispose thee;
And, as I ought, I dare not. Oh, Imoinda!
Imo. Alas, that sigh! Why do you tremble so?
Nay, then, 'tis bad, indeed, if you can weep.

Oro. My heart runs over; if my gushing eyes
Betray a weakness which they never knew,
Believe, thou, only thou, couldst cause these tears.
"The gods themselves conspire with faithless men
To our destruction.

"Imo. Heaven and earth our foes!

If Heaven could be appeased, these cruel men
Are not to be entreated or believed;

Oh, think on that, and be no more deceived.
"Oro. But we were born to suffer.
"Imo. Suffer, both ?-

Both die, and so prevent them.
"Oro. By thy death!

Oh, let me hunt my travelled thoughts again,-
Range the wild waste of desolate despair!
Start any hope! Alas, I lose myself!
'Tis pathless, dark, and barren, all to me!
Thou art my only guide-my light of life,
And thou art leaving me. Send out thy beams
Upon the wing; let them fly all around,-
Discover every way; is there a dawn,
A glimmering of comfort? The great God,
That rises on the world must shine on us.
"Imo. And see us set before him.
"Oro. Thou bespeak'st,

Oro. His own gods damn him, then! for ours And goest before me.

have none,

No punishment for such unheard-of crime.

Imo. This monster, cunning in his flatteries,
When he had wearied all his useless arts,
Leap'd out, fierce as a beast of prey, to seize me.
I trembled, feared.

Oro. I fear and tremble now.

What could preserve thee?-What deliver thee?
Imo. That worthy man, you used to call your friend.
Oro. Blandford?

Imo. Came in, and saved me from his rage.
Oro. He was a friend, indeed, to rescue thee!
And, for his sake, I'll think it possible
A Christian may be yet an honest man.

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Oro. Ha! this dagger,

Like Fate, appoints me to the horrid deed.

Oro. I see them coming.

They shall not overtake us. This last―
And now, farewell!

"Imo. Farewell! Farewell, for ever!
"Oro. I'll turn my face away, and do it so.".
Now, are you ready?

Imo. Now." But do not grudge me
The pleasure, in my death, of a last look ;"

Imo. Strike, strike it home, and bravely save us Pray, look up on me !-Now I'm satisfied.

both!

There is no other safety.

Oro. It must be !

But, first, a dying kiss

This last embrace

And now

Imo. I'm ready.

Oro. Oh, where shall I strike ?

Is there the smallest grain of that lov'd body,
That is not dearer to me than mine eyes,
My bosom'd heart, and all the life-blood there?
Bid me cut off these limbs, hew off these hands,
Dig out these eyes, though I would keep them last
To gaze upon thee: but, to murder thee,-
The joy and charm of ev'ry ravish'd sense,—
My wife! Forbid it, Nature!

Imo. 'Tis your wife

Who, on her knees, conjures you. Oh, in time,
Prevent those mischiefs that are falling on us.
You may be hurried to a shameful death,
And I, too, dragged to the vile Governor;
Then I may crv in vain. When you are gone,
Where shall I find a friend again to save me?

Oro. "It will be so. Thou unexampled virtue!
Thy resolution has recovered mine;"
And now prepare thee.

Imo. Thus, with open arms,

I welcome you, and death.

Oro. So fate must be, by this.

[Going to stab her, he stops short-she lays her
hand on his, in order to give the blow.

Imo. "Nay, then, I must assist you."
Thus, thus 'tis finish'd, and I bless my fate,

[Stabs herself.

That, where I liv'd, I die, in these lov'd arms.

[Dies.
Oro. She's gone. And now all's at end with me.
Soft, lay her down; ob, we will part no more!
[Throws himself by her.

"But let me pay tribute of my grief
A few sad tears to thy loved memory,
And then I follow-
[Weeps over her.
But I stay too long."
[A noise again.
The noise comes nearer. Hold; before I go,
There's something would be done. It shall be so,
And then, Imoinda, I'll come all to thee.

[Rises.

Enter BLANDFORD and his Party, before the Go-
vernor and his Party; swords drawn on both sides.
Gov. You strive in vain to save him; he shall
die.

Bla. Not while we can defend him with our lives.
Gov. Where is he?

Oro. Here's the wretch whom you would
"Put up your swords, and let not civil broils

[He drops his dagger as he looks on her, and Engage you in the cursed cause of one

throws himself on the ground.

Oro. I cannot bear it!

Ob, let me dash against the rock of fate,

Dig up this earth-tear, tear her bowels out, To make a grave, deep as the centre down, To swallow wide, and bury us together! It will not be. O; then some pitying god (If there be one a friend to innocence) Find yet a way to lay her beauties down Gently in death, and save me from her blood, "Imo. O, rise; 'tis more than death to see you thus.

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'I'll ease your love, and do the deed myself.
[She takes up the dagger-he rises in haste to
take it from her.

"Oro. Oh, hold! I charge thee, hold!
"Imo. Though, I must own,

It would be nobler for us both, from you."

Oro. Oh, for a whirlwind's wing to hurry us To yonder cliff, which frowns upon the flood; That, in embraces lock'd, we might plunge in, And perish thus in one another's arms!

[Distant noise without.

Imo, Alas! what is that I hear?

Who cannot live, and now entreats to die.
This object will convince you.

Bla. 'Tis his wife! [They gather about the body.
Alas! there was no other remedy.

Gov. Who did the bloody deed?
Oro. The deed was mine;

Bloody I know it is, and I expect

Your laws should tell me so. Thus, self-condemn'd.
I do resign myself into your hands,
The hands of justice-but I hold the sword-
For you-and for myself.

[Stabs the Governor and himself, then throws
himself by IMOINDA's body.

Oro. 'Tis as it should be now; I have sent his ghost

To be a witness of that happiness

In the next world which he denied us here. [Dies.
"Bla. I hope there is a place of happiness

In the next world for such exalted virtue.
Pagan or unbeliever, yet he lived
To all he knew; and, if he went astray,
There's mercy still above to set him right,
But Christians, guided by the heavenly raz,
Have no excuse if they mistake their way."

САТО.

A TRAGEDY.

BY JOSEPH ADDISON.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

Сато.
LUCIUS.

PORCIUS.

SEMPRONIUS.

MARCUS.

DECIUS.

JUBA.

SYPHAX.

JUNIUS.

TITUS.

MARCIA.
LUCIA.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-A Hall in the Palace.

Enter PORCIUS and MARCUS.

Por. The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, the 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
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make
Among your works!

Mar. Thy steady temper, Porcius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy:
I'm tortur'd, even to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he's named,
Pharsalia rises to my view; I see

The insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field

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 great-

ness,

And mix'd with too much horror to be envied.
How does the lustre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant bright-

ness!

His suff'rings shine, and spread a glory round him:
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause

Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.

Mar. 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 Cæsar?
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 battles fought in vain.
By heavens, such virtues, join'd with sueh success,
Distract my very soul: our father's fortune
Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.

Por. Remember what our father oft has told us :
The ways of Heaven are dark and intricate :
Our understanding traces them in vain ;
Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search,
Nor sees with how much art the windings run.
Nor where the regular confusion ends.

Mar. These are suggestions of a mind at ease:
O, Porcius, didst thou taste but half the griefs
That wring my soul, thou could'st not talk thus
calmly.

Passion unpitied, and successless love,
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind-2

Por. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy ri
But I must hide it; for I know thy temper. [A
Now, Marcus, now thy virtue's on the proof:
Put forth thy utmost strength, work everv "erve,
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,

Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son.

slaughter.

O, Porcius, is there not some chosen curse,

Mar. 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-

Par. Behold young Juba, the Numidian Prince:
He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her;
But still the smother'd fondness burns within him:
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?

Mar. No more, no more! your words leave stings behind 'em.

Whene'er did Juba, or did Porcius, show
A virtue that has cast me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?
Por. O, Marcus, did I know the way to ease
Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains,
Believe me, I could freely die to do it.

Mar. Thou best of brothers, and thou best of
friends!

Pardon a weak distemper'd soul, that swells
With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in calms,
The sport of passions.-But, Sempronius comes:
He must not find this softness hanging on me.
[Exit.-PORTIUS retires back.

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I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble,
And speak a language foreign to my heart.-
Good morrow, Porcius! [PORCIUS comes forward.]
Let us once embrace,

Once more embrace, whilst yet we both are free:
To-morrow, should we thus express our friendship,
Each might receive a slave into his arms
This sun, perhaps, this morning's sun's the last
That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty

Por. My father has this morning call'd together His little Roman senate

The leavings of Pharsalia-to consult
If yet he can 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 her assembly awful,
They strike with something like religious fear,
And make even Cæsar tremble at the head
Of armies flush'd with conquest. O, my Porcius,
Could 1 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, would'st 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 m re

On this important hour.-I'll straight away,
To animate the soldier's drooping courage
With love of freedom, and contempt of life,
And try to rouse up all that's Roman in 'em.
'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-

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

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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, of honour, and 1 know not what,
That have corrupted his Numidian temper
And struck the 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 Africk 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
Our frauds, unless they're cover'd thick with art.

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: would'st thou be thought in

earnest,

Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury.

Syph. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs, And teach the wily African deceit.

Sem. Once more, be sure to try thy skill on Jubi. Meanwhile I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers,

m re I'm charm'd. Thou must take heed, my Inflame the mutiny, and, underhand,

Porcius;

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 ty virtues or thy faults conspicuous.
Po. Well dost thou seem to check my lingering

here

NO. 8.

Blow up their discontents, till they break out
Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato.
Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste;
O think, what anxious moments pass between
The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods;
It is a dreadful interval of time,

Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death; 8 G

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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, And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince? Syph. "Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts, Nor 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 ungenerous

terms

Against these wonderous sovereigns of the world? Dost thou not see mankind fall down before 'em, And own the force of their superior virtue?

Syph. Gods where's the worth that sets this people up

Above your own Numidia's tawny sons?
Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow?
Or flies the javelin 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 the embattled elephant,
Loaden 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
With wisdom, discipline, and liberal arts-
The embellishments of life; virtues like these
Make human nature shine, reform the soul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.

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, won't discern
What virtues grow from ignorance and choice;.
Nor how the hero differs from the brute.
But, grant that others could, with equal glory,
Look down on pleasures and the baits of sense,
Where shall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
How does he rise against a load of woes,
And thank the gods that throw 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 fallen, by a slave's hand, inglorious;
Nor would his slaughter'd army now have lain
On Africk's sands, disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.

Juba. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh?
My father's name brings tears into my eyes.
Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills!
Juba. What would'st thou have me do?
Syph. Abandon Cato.

Juba. Never-I should be more than twice an orphan

By such a loss.

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Syph. Patience, kind heavens!-Excuse an old The sun, that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,

man's warmth;

What are these wonderous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and his smooth behaviour,
That render man thus tractable and tame ?
Are they not only to disguise our passions,
To set our looks at variance with our thoughts?
In short, to change us into other creatures
Than what our nature and the gods design'd us?
Juba. To strike thee dumb, turn up thy eyes to
Cato;

There may'st thou see to what a godlike height
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man:

enouncing sleep, and rest, and food, and ease, Te strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat; nl, when his fortune sets before him all

e pomps and pleasures that our soul can wish, s rigid virtue will accept of none. Syph. Believe me, prince, there's not an African hat traverses our vast Numidian deserts

quest of prey, and lives upon his bow, it better practises these boasted virtues ; Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase; Amidst the running stream he slakes his thirst, Toils all the day, and, at the approach of night, On the first friendly bank he throws him down, Or rests his head upon a rock till morn;

Works up more fire and colour in their cheeks: Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon forget The pale, unripen'd beauties of the north.

Juba. 'Tis not a set of features, nor complexion, The tincture of a skin, that I admire : Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense. The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex: True, she is fair-O how divinely fair!— But still the lovely maid improves her charms With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom, And sanctity of manners. Cato's soul Shines out in every thing she acts or speaks, While winning mildness and attractive smiles Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace Soften the rigour of her father's virtues.

Syph. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise!

But, on my knees, I beg you would consider-
Juba. Ha! is't not she?-It is :-she moves this

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