HE dawn is over-caft, the morning lowers, And close the scene of blood. Already Cæfar MARCUS. Thy fteddy temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæfar, I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madness, when I think 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, PORTIU S. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatnefs, Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome. 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? A poor epitome of Roman greatness, By heavens, fuch virtues, join'd with such fuccefs, PORTIU S. Remember what our father oft has told us The The ways of heaven are dark and intricate, 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. To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart MARCUS. Portius, the counsel which I cannot take, Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death, In high ambition, and a thirft of greatness; PORTIU S. Behold young Juba, the Numidian Prince ! Drive the big passion back into his heart. 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 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? SEMPRONIUS, PORTIUS. SEMPRONIUS. Good morrow, Portius! let us once embrace, Once more embrace; whilst yet we both are free. To |