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But ftill the lovely maid improves her charms,
With inward greatnefs, unaffected wisdom,
And fanctity of manners. Cato's foul
Shines out in ev'ry thing fhe 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 praife!

CATO,

CHAP. VIII.

CATO's SOLILOQUY.

It must be fo—Plato, thou reason'st well—

T

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 ftirs within us;

'Tis Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleafing, dreadful thought!
Thro' what variety of untry'd being,

Thro' what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me :
But fhadows, clouds, and darkness reft 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,

But

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But when? or where ?-This world was made for Cæfar,
I'm weary of conjectures-this muft end 'em.

Thus am I doubly arm'd-My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This, in a moment, brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The foul, fecur'd in her exiftence, fmiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point:
The stars fhall fade away, the fun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature fink in years;
But thou fhalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

Сата.

CHAP. IX.

SOUTHAMPTON AND ESSEX.

OFFICER.

My lord,

We bring an order for your execution,

And hope you are prepar'd; for you must die

This very hour.

SOUTH. Indeed! the time is fudden !

Ess. Is death th' event of all my flatter'd hope?

Falfe Sex! and Queen more perjur'd than them all!
But die I will without the least complaint,

My foul fhall vanish filent as the dew,

Attracted by the fun from verdant fields,

And leaves of weeping flowers-Come, my dear friend,
Partner in fate, give me thy body in

These faithful arms-and O now let me tell thee,
And you, my lords, and Heaven my witness too,

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I have no weight, no heaviness on my foul,

But that I've lost my dearest friend his life.

SOUTH. And I proteft by the fame powers divine, And to the world, 'tis all my happiness,

The greatest blifs my mind yet e'er enjoy'd,

Since we muft die, my lord, to die together.

339

OFFICER. The queen, my lord Southampton, has been
pleas'd

To grant particular mercy to your perfon;
And has by us fent you a reprieve from death,
With parden of your treafons, and commands
You to depart immediately from hence.

SOUTH. O my unguarded foul! Sure never was
A man with mercy wounded fo before.

Ess. Then I am loose to steer my wand'ring voyage;
Like a bad veffel that has long been croft,
And bound by adverfe winds, at laft gets liberty,
And joyfully makes all the fail she can,
To reach its wish'd- for port-Angels protect
The queen, for her my chiefest prayers shall be,
That as in time fhe has fpar'd my noble friend,
And owns his crimes worth mercy, may she ne'er
Think fo of me too late when I am dead-

Again, Southampton, let me hold thee faft,
For 'tis my laft embrace.

SOUTH. O be less kind, my friend, or move lefs pity,
Or 1 fhall fink beneath the weight of fadness!

I

weep that I am doom'd to live without you,

And should have fmil'd to fhare the death of Effex.

Ess. O fpare this tenderness for one that needs it,
For her that I commit to thee,-'tis all that I
Can claim of my Southampton-O my wife!

R.

Methinks

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On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall befiege your gates.
There paffengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whofe fouls the furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pafs the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whofe breast ne'er learnt to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh, ever injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By ftrangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd.
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,.
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public show;
What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face:
What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the Morn her earlieft tears beflow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow ;
While angels with their filver wings o'ershade

The ground now facred by thy relics made.

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So peaceful refts, without a fione, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of duft alone remains of thee,

'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themfelves must fall, like those they fung,
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;
Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall part,
And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle bufinefs at one gafp be o'er,

The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

POPE.

CHAP. V.

MORNING HYMN.

THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of Good!

Almighty thine this univerfal frame

Thus wond'rous fair! thyself how wond'rous then!
Unspeakable! who fitt'ft above these heav'ns,

To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowlieft works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine,
Speak ye who beft can tell, ye fons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with fongs
And choral fymphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heav'n,
On earth join all ye creatures to extol
Him firft, him laft, him midft, and without end,

Faireft

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