MARCI A.
Alas! 'tis not the voice
Of one who fleeps! 'tis agonizing pain,
"Tis death is in that found
O Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass! *Cato is fall'n upon his fword
Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale,
And let us guess the rest.
And plac'd him in his chair, where, pale and faint, He gafps for breath, and, as his life flows from him, Demands to fee his friends. His weeping fervants, Obfequious to his orders, bear him hither.
[The back Scene opens, and discovers CATO.
O heaven, affift me in this dreadful hour To pay the last fad duties to my father!
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Cæfar!
Now is Rome fall'n indeed!
[CATO brought forward in his chair.
Portius, come near me―are my friends embark'd?
Can any thing be thought of for their fervice?
Whilft I yet live, let me not live in vain.
-O Lucius, art thou here?-Thou art too good!-
Let this our friendship live between our children;
Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia.
Alas poor man, he weeps !-Marcia, my daughter-
-O bend me forward!-Juba loves thee, Marcia.
A Senator of Rome, while Rome furviv'd,
Would not have match'd his daughter with a king,
But Cæfar's arms have thrown down all distinction;
Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman-
—I 'm fick to death-O when shall I get loose
From this vain world, th' abode of guilt and forrow!--
-And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in
On my departing foul. Alas, I fear
I've been too hafty. O ye powers, that fearch
The heart of man, and weigh his inmoft thoughts,
If I have done amifs, impute it not !--
The best may err, but you are good, and-o [Dies.
There fled the greatest foul that ever warm'd
A Roman breast. O Cato! O my friend!
Thy will shall be religiously obferv'd.
But let us bear this awful corpfe to Cæfar,
And lay it in his fight, that it may stand
A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath;
Cato, though dead, shall still protect his friends.
From hence, let fierce contending nations know
What dire effects from civil difcord flow.
Tis this that shakes our country with alarms,
And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms,
Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife,
And robs the guilty world of Cato's life.
WRITTEN BY SIR SAMUEL GARTH.
HAT odd fantastic things we women do!
Who would not liften when young lovers woo?
But die a maid, yet have the choice of two!
Ladies are often cruel to their coft:
To give you pain, themselves they punish most.
Vows of virginity should well be weigh'd;
Too oft they're cancel'd, though in convents made.
Would you revenge such rash resolves---you may
Be fpiteful---and believe the thing we say,
We hate you when you're eafily faid nay.
How needlefs, if you knew us, were your
Let love have eyes, and beauty will have ears.
Our hearts are form'd as you yourselves would chufe,
Too proud to afk, too humble to refufe:
We give to merit, and to wealth we fell:
He fighs with most success that fettles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix:
'Tis beft repenting in a coach and fix.
Blame not our conduct, fince we but pursue
Thofe lively leffons we have learnt from you.
Your breafts no more the fire of beauty warms,
But wicked wealth ufurps the power of charms.
What pains to get the gaudy thing you hate,
To fwell in fhow, and be a wretch in state!
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow;
Ev'n churches are no fanctuaries now :
There golden idols all your vows receive,
She is no goddess that has nought to give.
Oh, may once more the happy age appear,
When words were artlefs, and the thoughts fincere ;
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things,
And courts lefs coveted than groves and fprings :
Love then fhall only mourn when truth complains,
And conftancy feel transport in its chains:
Sighs with fuccefs their own foft anguish tell,
And eyes shall utter what the lips conceal:
Virtue again to its bright station climb,
And beauty fear no enemy but time;
The fair fhall liften to defert alone,
And every Lucia find a Cato's fon.
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