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On the high point of yon bright western tower
We ken them from afar; the fetting fun
Plays on their shining arnıs and burnish d helmets,
And covers all the field with gleams of fire.
Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father.
Cæsar is still dispos’d to give us terms,
And waits at distance 'till he hears from Cato.
Portius, thy looks speak fomewhat of importance.
What tidings doft thou bring? Methinks I fee
Unusual gladness sparkling in thy eyes.
As I was hasting to the port, where now
My father's friends, impatient for a passage,
Accuse the lingering winds, a fail arriv'd
From Pompey's son, who through the realms of Spain
Calls out for vengeance on his father's death,
And rouzes the whole nation up to arms.
Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome
Aflert her rights, and claim her liberty.
But hark! what means that groan ? O give me way,
And let me fly into my father's presence.
Cato, amidit his flumbers, thinks on Rome,
And in the wild disorder of his soul
Mourns o'er his country; ha! a second groan
Heaven guard us all !
Alas! 'tis not the voice
Of one who feeps ! 'tis agonizing pain,
Tis death is in that found-
O sight of woe! O Marcia, what we feard is come to pass ! Cato is fall’n upon his sword
o Portius, Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale, And let us guess the rest.
I 've rais'd him up,
And plac'd him in his chair, where, pale and faint,
He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him,
Demands to see his friends. His weeping servants,
Obsequious to his orders, bear him hither.
[The.back Scene opens, and discovers CATO.
O heaven, aslift me in this dreadful hour
To pay the last sad duties to my father!
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, o Cæfar !
Now is Rome fall’n indeed !-
[CATO brought forward in bis chair,
Here fet me down 'ortius, 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 Portíus happy in thy daughter Lucia. Alas poor man, he weeps !--Marcia, my daughter - 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 Cæsar's arms have thrown down all distinction; Whoe'er is brave and virtuous, is a Roman -I 'm fick to death when shall I get loose From this vain world, th’abode of guilt and sorrow!
- And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in
On my departing foul. Alas, I fear
I've been too hasty. Oye powers, that search
The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts,
If I have done amifs, impute it not !
The best may err, but you are good, and mo [ Dies.
There fled the greatest soul that ever warm’d
A Roman breast. O Cato! O my friend!
Thy will shall be religiously observ'd.
But let us bear this awful corpse to Cæsar,
And lay it in his fight, that it may
A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath ;
Cate, though dead, shall still protect his friends.
From hence, let fierce contending nations know
What dire effects from civil discord 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 !
But die a maid, yet have the choice of two !
Ladies are often cruel to their colt:
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 spiteful---and believe the thing we fay,
We hate you when you're easily said nay.
How needless, if you knew us, were your fears !
Let love have eyes, and beauty will have ears.
Qur hearts are form’d as you yourselves would chuse,
Too proud to ask, too humble to refuse :
We give to merit, and to wealth we sell :
He fighs with most success that settles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix :
'Tis best repenting in a coach and fix.
Blame not our conduct, since we but pursue
Those lively lesions we have learnt from you.
Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms,
But wicked wealth usurps the power of charms.