By thee, and more then half perhaps will reign ;

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

MILTON

JUB.

CHA P. VII.

JUBA AND SYPHA X.

Shave obferyd

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 cold 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 fo much the Roman in me.

JUB. Why doft thou cast out fuch ungen'rous terms
Against the lords and fov'reigns of the world?

Doft thou not fee mankind fall down down before them,
And own the force of their superior virtue ?

Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,

Amidst our barren rocks, and burning fands,

That does not tremble at the Roman name ?

SYPH. Gods! where's the worth that fets this people up Above your 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 instructs
The fiery fteed, and trains him to his hand?
Or guides in troops th' embattled elephant,

Loader

Loaden with war? Thefe, these are arts, my prince,
In which y your Zama does not stoop to Rome.
JUB. Thefe 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 reftraint 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 these wond'rous civilizing arts,

This Roman polish, and this fmooth behaviour,
That render man thus tractable and tame ?
Are they not only to disguise our paffions,
To fet our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the ftarts and fallies of the soul,
And break off all 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'st 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 ease,
He ftrives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat:
And when his fortune fets before him all

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 traverfes our vast Numidian deferts

In queft of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises these boasted virtues.
Coarfe are his meals, the fortune of the chafe,
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, pursues 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 discern,
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 fenfe
Where fhall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato ?

Heav'ns with what ftrength, what steadiness 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 cause,
He had not fall'n by a flave's hand, inglorious:
Nor would, his flaughter'd army now have lain

On

On Afric fands disfigur'd with their wounds,

To gorge

the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
JUB. Why dost 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'ft thou have me do?

SYPH. Abandon Cato.

JUB. Syphax, I should 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.

JUв. Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate; I've hitherto permitted it to rave,

And talk at large; but learn to keep it in,

Left it fhould 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 laft 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 brim full of tears) then fighing cry'd,
Pr'ythee be careful of my son !—His grief
Swell'd up fo high, he could not utter more.

JUB. Alas, the story melts away my soul,
That beft of fathers! how fhall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him?
SYPH. By laying up his counfels in your heart.
R 2

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

Vent all thy paffion, and I'll stand its shock,
Calm and unruffled as a fummer sea,

When not a breath of wind flies o'er its furface.

SYPH. Alas, my prince, I'd guide you to your fafety!

JUB. I do believe thou wouldf; but tell me how?
SYPH. Fly from the fate that follows Cæfar's foes.

JUB. My father fcorn'dto do it.

SYPH. And therefore dy’d.

JUB. Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths, Than wound my honour.

SYPH. Rather fay your love.

JUв. Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my temper : Why wilt thou urge me to confess 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'dfoon 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!)

But