HE dawn is over-caft, 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 Cæfar
Has ravag❜d more than half the globe, and fees
Mankind grown thin by his deftructive sword:
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting, -
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye Gods, what havock does ambition make
Among your works!

MARCUS.

Thy fteddy temper, Portius,

Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæfar,
In the calm lights of mild philofophy;

I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he 's nam'd
Pharfalia rifes to my view-I fee

Th' insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field

Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in flaughter,

His horfe's hoofs wet with Patrician blood.

Oh Portius, is there not fome chofen curfe,
Some hidden thunder in the ftores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the inan
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin ?

PORTIU S.

Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatnefs,
And mixt with too much horror to be envy'd :
How does the luftre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness !
His fufferings fhine, and spread a glory round him;
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause

Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His fword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppreffion, tyranny, and power ufurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arin upon them.
MARCUS.

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 Cæfar?
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, fuch virtues, join'd with such fuccefs,
Distract my very foul: our father's fortune
Would almoft tempt us to renounce his precepts.

PORTIU S.

Remember what our father oft has told us

The

The ways of heaven are dark and intricate,
Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors;
Our understanding traces them in vain,
Loft and bewilder'd in the fruitless fearch;
Nor fees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confufion ends.

MARCUS.

Thefe are fuggeftions of a mind at ease: Oh Portius, didft thou taste but half the griefs That wring my foul, thou could'st not talk thus coldly. Paffion unpity'd and fuccefslefs love

Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate

My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind!

PORTIUS.

Thou see'st not that thy brother is thy rival : But I muft hide it, for I know thy temper.

[Afide.
Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the proof:
Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve,
And call up all thy father in thy foul:

To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart
On this weak fide, where moft our nature fails,
Would be a conqueft worthy Cato's fon.

MARCUS.

Portius, the counsel which I cannot take,
Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Bid me for honour plunge into a war

Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death,
Then fhalt thou fee that Marcus is not flow
To follow glory, and confefs his father.
Love is not to be reafon'd down, or loft

In high ambition, and a thirft of greatness;
'Tis fecond life, it grows into the foul,
Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse.
I feel it here my refolution melts-

PORTIU S.

Behold young Juba, the Numidian Prince !
With how much care he forms himself to glory,
And breaks the fiercenefs of his native temper
To copy out our father's bright example.
He loves our fifter Marcia, greatly loves her ;
His eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it:
But ftill the fmother'd fondnefs burns within him.
When most it fwells and labours for a vent,
The fenfe of honour and defire of farne

Drive the big passion back into his heart.
What! fhall an African, fhall Juba's heir,
Reproach great Cato's fon, and show the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman foul?

MARCU S.

Portius, no more! your words leave ftings behind them. When-e'er did Juba, or did Portius, show A virtue that has caft me at a distance,

And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?

PORTIUS.

Marcus, I know thy generous temper well; Fling but th' appearance of dishonour on it, It ftrait takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.

MARCU S.

A brother's fufferings claim a brother's pity.

4

PORTIUS.

PORTIU S.

Heaven knows I pity thee: behold my eyes
Ev'n whilft I speak.-Do they not swim in tears?
Were but my heart as naked to thy view,
Marcus would fee it bleed in his behalf.

MARCU S.

Why then doft treat me with rebukes, instead Of kind condoling cares and friendly forrow?

PORTIU S.

O Marcus, did I know the way to ease Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains, Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it.

MARCUS.

Thou best of brothers, and thou beft of friends! Pardon a weak diftemper'd foul, that fwells With fudden gufts, and finks as foon in calms, The sport of paffions-But Sempronius comes: He must not find this foftnefs hanging on me. [Exit.

SCENE II.

SEMPRONIUS.

Confpiracies no fooner fhould be form'd

Than executed. What means Portius here?
I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble,
And speak a language foreign to my heart.

SEMPRONIUS, PORTIUS.

SEMPRONIUS.

Good morrow, Portius! let us once embrace, Once more embrace; whilst yet we both are free.

To