CATO.

Alas, young Prince,

Falshood and fraud shoot up in every foil

The product of all climes-Rome has its Cæfars.

JUBA

"Tis gen'rons thus to comfort the distress'd.

CATO.

1

'Tis just to give applaufe where 'tis deserv'd: Thy virtue, Prince, has stood the teft of fortune, Like purest gold, that, tortur'd in the furnace,

Comes out more bright, and brings forth all its weight.

JUBA.

What shall I answer thee? my ravish'd heart
O'erflows with secret joy: I'd rather gain
Thy praife, O Cato, than Numidia's empire.

Re-enter PORTIUS.

PORTIUS.

Misfortune on misfortune! grief on grief!

My brother Marcus:

CATO.

Hah! what has he done?

Has he forsook his post ? has he given way?
Did he look tamely on, and let 'em pass?

PORTIUS.

Scarce had I left my father, but I met him Borne on the shields of his surviving foldiers,

Breath

Breathless and pale, and cover'd o'er with wounds.
Long at the head of his few faithful friends,

He stood the shock of a whole hoft of foes,

Till obstinately brave, and bent on death,
Opprest with multitudes he greatly fell.

I'm fatisfy'd..

CATO.

PORTIUS.

Nor did he fall before

His sword had pierc'd through the false heart of Syphax.

Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor

Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the ground.
CATO,

Thanks to the gods! my boy has done his duty!

-Portius, when I am dead, be sure you place

His urn near mine.

PORTIUS.

Long may they keep asunder!

LUCIUS.

O Cato, arm thy foul with all its patience;
See where the corps of thy dead fon approaches!

The citizens and fenators, alarm'd,

Have gather'd round it, and attend it weeping.

CATO meeting the Corps.

Welcome, my fon! here lay him down, my friends, Full in my fight, that I may view at leifure

The bloody corse, and count those glorious wounds.
-How beautiful is death, when earn'd by virtue!
Who would not be that youth? what pity is it
That we can die but once to serve our country!
------Why fits this sadness on your brows, my friends?
I should have blush'd if Cato's house had stood
Secure, and flourish'd in a civil war.

--Portius, behold thy brother, and remember
Thy life is not thy own, when Rome demands it.

JUBA.

Was ever man like this!

Alas, my friends!

CATO

[Afide

Why mourn you thus? let not a private lofs
Afflict your hearts. 'Tis Rome requires our tears,
The mistress of the world, the feat of empire,

The nurse of heroes, the delight of gods,
That humbled the proud tyrants of the earth,
And fet the nations free, Rome is no more.

O liberty! O virtue! Omy country!

JUBA.

Behold that upright man: Rome fills his eyes With tears, that flow'd not o'er his own dead fon. (Afide.

CATO.

Whate'er the Roman virtue has fubdu'd, The sun's whole course, the day and year, are Cæfar's.

For him the self-devoted Decii dy'd,

The

The Fabii fell, and the great Scipio's conquer'd:
Ev'n Pompey fought for Cæfar. Oh, my friends!
How is the toil of fate, the work of ages,
The Roman Empire fall'n! O curst ambition!

Fall'n into Cæfar's hands! Our great fore-fathers
Had left him nought to conquer but his country.

JUBA.

While Cate lives, Cæfar will blush to see Mankind enslaved, and be ashamed of empire.

CATO.

Cæfar ashamed! has not he seen Pharfalia?

LUCIUS.

Cato, 'tis time thou save thyself and us.

CATO.

I'm out of danger.

Lofe not a thought on me.
Heaven will not leave me in the victor's hand.
Cefar shall never say, I conquer'd Cato.
But oh, my friends, your safety fills my heart
With anxious thoughts: a thousand fecret terrors
Rife in my foul: how shall I save my friends!
'Tis now, OCafar, I begin to fear thee.
LUCIUS.

Cafar has mercy, if we ask it of him.
CATO.

Then ask it, I conjure you! let him know
Whate'er was done against him, Cato did it.
Add, if you please, that I request it of him,

The

The virtue of my friends may pass unpunish'd.
Juba, my heart is troubled for thy fake.

Should I advise thee to regain Numidia,

Or feek the conqueror

JUBA.

If I forfake thee

While I live, may heaven abandon Juba!

CATO.

Thy virtues, Prince, if I forefee aright,
Will one day make thee great: At Rome hereafter,
'Twill be no crime to have been Cato's friend.

Portius, draw near! My son, thou oft haft seen
Thy fire engag'd in a corrupted state,
Wrestling with vice and faction: now thou seest me
Spent, overpower'd, despairing of fuccess;
Let me advise thee to retreat betimes

To my paternal feat, the Sabine field,

Where the great Cenfor toil'd with his own hands,
And all our frugal ancestors were bless'd
In humble virtues, and a rural life.

'There live retired, pray for the peace of Rome,
Content thyself to be obscurely good.
When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway,
The post of honour is a private station.

PORTIUS.

I hope my father does not recommend A life to Portius, that he scorns himself.

CATO.