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By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;

As man ere long, and this new world, fhall know.

MILTON.

CHAP. VII.

JUBA AND SYPHAX.

JUB. SYPHAX, I joy to meet thee thus alone.

I have obferv'd of late thy looks are fall'n,
O'ercaft with gloomy cares and discontent; -
Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me,
What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns,
And turn thine eyes thus coldly on thy prince?

SYPH. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts
Or carry fmiles and funfhine in my face,
When discontent fits heavy at my heart:
I have not yet so much the Roman in me.

JUB. Why doft thou cast out such ungen'rous terms:
Against the lords and fov'reigns of the world?
Doft thou not fee mankind fall down before them,
And own the force of their fuperior virtue ?
Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,
Amidft our barren rocks and burning fands,

That does not tremble at the Roman name?

SYPH. Gods! where's the worth that fets this people upAbove you own Numidia's tawny fons ?

Do they with tougher finews bend the bow?
Or flies the jav'lin fwifter to its mark,
Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm?
Who like our active African inftructs
The fiery fteed, and trains him to his hand?
Or guides in troops th' embattled elephant,

Loaden

Loaden with war? Thefe, these are arts, my prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.

JUB. These all are virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are plac'd in bones and nerves,
A Roman foul is bent on higher views ;
To civilize the rude unpolish'd world,
To lay it under the restraint of laws;
To make man mild, and fociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious favage
With wisdom, difcipline, and lib'ral arts;
Th' embellishments of life: virtues like thefe,
Make human nature fhine, reform the foul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.

SYPH. Patience, juft heav'ns!-Excuse an old man's warmth.

What are thefe wond'rous civilizing arts,

This Romon polish, and this fmooth behaviour,
That render men thus tractable and tame ?
Are they not only to difguife our paffions,
To fet our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the ftarts and fallies of the foul,
And break off ali its commerce with the tongue ?
In short, to change us into other creatures,
Than what our nature and the gods defign'd us?

JUB. To ftrike thee dumb: turn up thy eyes to Cato!
There may't thou fee to what a godlike height
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man.

While good, and just, and anxious for his friends,
He's ftill feverely bent against himself;
Renouncing fleep, and reft, and food, and eafe,
He ftrives with thirft and hunger, toil and heat:
And when his fortune sets before him a'l

The

The pomps and pleafures that his foul can wish,
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 thefe boafted yirtues.
Coarfe are his meals, the fortune of the chace
Amidst the running ftream he flakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and at th' approach of night
On the first friendly bank he throws him down,
Or rests his head upon a rock till morn:
Then rifes fresh, purfues his wonted game,
And if the following day he chance to find a
A new repast, or an untafted fpring,
Bleffes his ftars, and thinks it luxury.

JUB. 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 pleasures, and the baits of sense;
Where fhall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
Heav'ns! with what strength, what fteadiness of mind,
He triumphs in the midst of all his fuff'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 fallen by a flave's hand, inglorious:
Nor would his flaughter'd army now have lain

One

On Afric's fands disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.

JUB. Why doft 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'st thou have me do?

SYPH. Abandon Cato.

JUB. Syphax, I fhould 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.

JUB. 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 foul.
The good old king at parting wrung my hand,
(His eyes brimful of tears) then fighing cry'd,
Pry'thee be careful of my fon!His grief
Swell'd up fo high, he could not utter more.

JUB. Alas, the flory melts away my foul.
That beft of fathers! how fhall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him?

SY PH. By laying up his counsels in your heart.

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JUB. His counfels bad me yield to thy directions : Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms,

Vent all thy paffion, and I'll ftand its fhock,

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 safety.

JUB. I do believe thou wouldft; but tell me how?
SYPH. Fly from the fate that follows Cæfar's foes.
JUB. My father fcorn'd to do it.

SYPH. And therefore dy❜d.

JUB. Better to die ten thousand deaths,

Than wound my honour.

SYPH. Rather fay your love.

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

I long have ftifled and would fain conceal ?

SYPH. Believe me, prince, tho' hard to conquer love, 'Tis easy 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 flush'd with more exalted charms;
The fun that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and colour in their cheeks:
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 sense.
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her fex:
True, fhe is fair (oh, how divinely fair!)

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