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 refraint of laws;
To make man mild, and fociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious favage
With wifdom, 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!-Excufe 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 starts 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 juft, and anxious for his friends,
He's ftill feverely bent against himself;
Renouncing fleep, and reft, and food, and eafe,
He strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat :
And when his fortune fets before him a'l
The pomps and pleasures that his foul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.
SYPH. Believe me, prince, there's not an African
That traverses our vaft Numidian deferts
In queft of prey, and lives upon his bow,.
But better practifes thefe boafted yirtues.
Ccarfe 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 refts his head upon a rock till morn:
Then rifes fresh, purfues 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..
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 shall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
Heav'ns with what ftrength, 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 so 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
On Afric's fands disfigur'd with their wounds,
Το 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?
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 soul.
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 ftory 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.
JUB. His counfels bad me yield to thy directions:
Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms,
Vent all thy paffion, and I'll stand 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 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 preserve 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 flufh'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 fenfe.
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her fex:
True, fhe is fair (oh, how divinely fair!)
But ftill the lovely maid improves her charms,
With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom,
And fanctity of manners. Cato's foul
Shines out in ev'ry thing the acts or speaks,
While winning mildness and attractive smiles
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace
Soften the rigour of her father's virtues.
SYPH. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise !
CATO's SOLILOQUY.
IT muft Le fo-Plato, thou reafon'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 stirs within us;
'Tis Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Thro' what variety of untry'd being,
Thro' what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th' unbounded profpect lies before me:
But fhadows, clouds, and darkness rest 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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