Nor how the hero differs from the brute.
But grant that others could with equal glory
Look down on pleafures, and the baits of fenfe;
Where fhall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
Heavens with what ftrength, what fteadiness of mind,
He triumphs in the midft of all his fufferings !
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 fallen by a flave's hand inglorious :
Nor would his flaughtered army now have lain,
On Afric's fands disfigured by their wounds
gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia,
Jub. Why doft thou call my forrows up afresh?
My father's name brings tears into my eyes.
Syph, Oh, that you'd profit by pour father's ills!
Jub What wouldft thou have me do?
Jub. Syphax, I fhould be more than twice an orphan by 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 fhould take more freedom than I'll give it.
Syph. Sif, 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 farewell!
Still muft 1 cherish the dear fad remembrance,
At opce to torture and to pleafe my foul.
The good old king at parting wrung my hand,
(His eyes brim full of tears) then fighing, cried,"
Prithee be careful of my fon !-His grief
Swell'd up fo high, he could not utter more.
Jub. Alas the story melts away my foul!
The best of fathers! how fhall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him?
Sypb. By laying up his councils in your heart.
Jub. His councils bade me yield to thy directions
Then Syphax, chide me in feverest terms:
Vent all thy paffions, and I'll stand the shock,
Calm and unruffled as a fummer's fea,
When not a breath of wind flies o'er its furface.
Syph. Alas, my prince, I'll guide you to your fafety.
Jub. I do believe thou wouldft; but tell me how,
Syph. Fly from the fate of 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 honor.
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 ealy 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, nor complexion,
The tincture of the fkin that I admire.
Beauty foon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eyes, and palls upon the fenfe.
The virtuous Marcia towers above her fex ;
True, fhe is fair, (Oh, how divinely fair!)
But ftill the lovely maid improves her charms,
With inward greatnefs, unaffected wisdom,
And fanctity of manners. Cato's foul
Shines out in every thing fhe acts or speaks;
While winning mildness and attractive smiles
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace,
Soften the rigor of her father's virtues.
Syph. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise!
WOLSEY and CROMWELL.
Wol. & of man. Today he puts forth
TAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatnefs!
The tenders leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him
The third day comes a froft, a killing froft,
And when he thinks, good eafy man, full furely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his fhoot;
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that fwim on bladders,
Thefe many fummers in a fea of glory,
But far beyond my depth; my high blown pride
At length broke under me; and, now, has left me,
Weary and old with fervice, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate you!
I feel my heart now open'd. Oh! how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors !
There is, betwixt that fmile he would afpire to,
That sweet afpect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs
and fears than war or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to raise again.
Why, how now Cromwell?
Crom. I have not power to speak, Sir.
Wol, What, amazed
At my misfortunes? Can thy fpirit wonder
A great man fhould decline? Nay, if you weep,
I'm fallen indeed.
Crom. How does your grace?
Wol. Why, well;
Never fo truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel, within me,
A peace above all earthly-dignities;
A till and quiet confcience. The king has cured me,
I humbly thank his grace? and from thefe fhoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken
A load would fink a navy, too much honor,
O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden,
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!
Crom. I'm glad your grace has made that right use of it,
Wol. I hope I have: I'm able now, methinks,
Out of a fortitude of foul I feel,
To endure more mifeties, and greater far,
Than my weak hearted enemies dare offer,
What news abroad?
Crom. The heaviest and the worst,
Is your difpleasure with the king.
Wol. God bless him!
Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas Moore is chosen
Lord Chancellor, in your place.
Wol. That's fomewhat fudden
But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highnefs' favor, and do juftice
For truth's fake and his confcience; that his bones,
When he has run his courfe, and fleeps in bleffings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept over him!
What more?
Crom- That Cranmer is return'd with welcome,
Inftall'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.
Wal. That's news indeed!
Crom. Laft that the Lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in fecrecy long married,
This day was view'd in open, as the Queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down; O Crom
The king has gone beyond me; all my glories,
In that one woman, I have loft forever.
No fun fhall ever ufher forth my honors,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my fmiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell ;
I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and mafter. Seek the king
(That fun I pray may never fet) I've told him
What, and how true thou art; he will advance thee i
Some little memory of me will ftir him,
I know his noble nature) not to let
Thy hopeful fervice perish too. Go, Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make ufe now, and provide
For thy own future safety.
Muft I then leave you? Muft I needs forego
So good, fo noble, and so true a master?
Bear witnefs, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a forrow Cromwell leaves his Lord :
The king fhall have my fervice: but, my prayers,
For ever, and for ever shall be yours.
Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to fhed a tear
In all my niiferies; but thou haft forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell,
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And fleep in dull cold marble, where mention
Of me muft no more be heard, fay then, I taught thee:
Say, Wolley that once rode the waves of glory,
And founded all the depths and fhoals of honor,
Found thee away, out of his wreck, to rife in
A fure and safe one, though my mafter mifs'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that fin fell the angels; how can man then
(Tho the image of his Maker) hope to win by it?
Love thyself laft; cherish thofe hearts that wait thee?
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To filence envious tongues. Be just and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'ft at, be thy country's,
Thy God's and truth's; then if thou fall'ift, O Cromwell!
Thou fall'ft, a bleffed martyr. Serve the king-
And prithee lead me in
There take an inventory of all I have ;
To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heav'n is all
I dare to call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but ferv'd my God with half the zeal
I ferv'd my king, he would not in my age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Crom. Good Sir, have patience,
Wol. So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court! My hopes in Heaven do dwell,
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