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The pomps and pleasures that his foul can wifh,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.

SYPH. Believe me, prince, there's not an African
That traverfes our vaft Numidian deferts

In queft of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises these boafted virtues.
Coarfe are his meals, the fortune of the chase,
Amidst the running stream he flakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and at th' approach of night
On the first friendly bank he throws him down,
Or refts his head upon a rock till morn:
Then rifes fresh, pursues his wonted game,
And if the following day he chance to find
A new repast, or an untasted spring,
Bleffes his ftars, and thinks it luxury.

JUR. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't difcern
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 pleafures, and the baits of fenfe;
Where shall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
Heav'ns! with what ftrength, what steadiness of mind,
He triumphs in the midst of all his suff'rings!
How does he rife against a load of woes,

And thank the gods that threw the weight upon him!

SYPH. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of foul: I think the Romans call it ftoicifm.

Had not your royal father thought fo highly
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's caufe,

He had not fall'n by a flave's hand, inglorious:
Nor would his flaughter'd army now have lain


On Afric fands disfigur'd with their wounds,
Το gorge
the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
JUB. Why dost thou call my forrows up afresh?
My father's name brings tears into mine eyes.

SYPH. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills!
JUB. What would'ft thou have me do?

SYPH. Abandon Cato.

JUB: Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan By fuch a lofs.

SYPH. Ay, there's the tie that binds you! You long to call him father. Marcia's charms Work in your heart unfeen, and plead for Cato. No wonder you are deaf to all I fay.

Juв. Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate;
I've hitherto permitted it to rave,

And talk at large; but learn to keep it in,
Left it should take more freedom than I'll give it.

SYPH. Sir, your great father never us'd me thus.
Alas, he's dead! but can you e'er forget
The tender forrows and the pangs of nature,
The fond embraces, and repeated bleffings,
Which you drew from him in your last farewel ?
Still muft I cherish the dear, fad remembrance,
At once to torture, and to please my soul.
The good old King at parting wrung my hand,
(His eyes brim full of tears) then fighing cry'd,
Pr'ythee be careful of my son !-His grief
Swell'd up fo high, he could not utter more.

JUB. Alas, the story melts away my foul.
That beft of fathers! how fhall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him?
SYPH. By laying up his counfels in your heart.

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JUB. His counfels bade me yield to thy directions:
Then, Syphax, chide me in fevereft terms,
Vent all thy paffion, and I'll ftand its shock,

Calm and unruffled as a fummer fea,

When not a breath of wind flies o'er its furface.

SYPH. Alas, my prince, I'd guide you to your fafety ! JUB. I do believe thou wouldst; but tell me how?

SYPH. Fly from the fate that follows Cæfar's foes.
Jus. My father fcorn'd to do it.

SYPH. And therefore dy'd.

JUB. Better to die ten thoufand deaths,

Than wound my honour.

SYPH. Rather say you love.

JUB. Syphax, I've promis'd to preferve my temper; Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame .

I long have ftifled, and would fain conceal?

SYPH. Believe me, prince, tho' hard to conquer love,
'Tis eafy to divert and break its force:
Abfence might cure it, or a fecond mistress
Light up another flame, and put out this.
The glowing dames of Zama's royal court
Have faces Aufh'd with more exalted charms ;
The fun that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and colour in their checks:
Were you with thefe, my prince, you'd foon forget
The pale, unripen'd beauties of the North.

JUB. 'Tis not a fet of features, or complexion,
The tincture of a skin that I admire.
Beauty foon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the fenfe.
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her fex:
True, fhe is fair (Oh, how divinely fair!)


But fill the lovely maid improves her charms,
With inward greatnefs, unaffected wisdom,
And fanctity of manners. Cato's foul
Shines out in ev'ry thing fhe acts or speaks,
While winning mildness and attractive fmiles
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace
Søften the rigour of her father's virtues.

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





IT must be fo-Plato, thou reason'st well

Elfe whence this pleafing hope, this fond defire,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this fecret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why fhrinks the foul
Back on herself, and startles at deftruction ?
'Tis the Divinity that ftirs within us;
'Tis Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

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Eternity! thou pleafing, dreadful, thought!
Thro' what variety of untry'd being,
Thro' what new fcenes and changes muft we pafs!
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me;
But fhadows, clouds, and darkness, reft upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us,
(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Thro' all her works) he muft delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in, must be happy.
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But when? or where ?-This world was made for Cæfar,
I'm weary of conjectures-this must end 'em.

Thus am I doubly arm'd.-My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I fhall never die.

The foul, fecur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point:
The ftars fhall fade away, the fun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature fink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

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We bring an order for your execution, And hope you are prepar'd; for you must die This very hour.

SOUTH. Indeed! the time is fudden!

Ess. Is death th' event of all my flatter'd hope? Falfe Sex! and Queen more perjur'd than them all! But die I will without the leaft complaint,

My foul fhall vanish filent as the dew,

Attracted by the fun from verdant fields,

And leaves of weeping flowers-Come, my dear friend,
Partner in fate, give me thy body in

These faithful arms, and O now let me tell thee,
And you, my Lords, and Heaven my witness too,

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