University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

Juba, Syphax.
Jub.
Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone.
I have observed of late thy Looks are fall'n,
O'ercast 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 Eye thus coldly on thy Prince?

Syph.
'Tis not my Talent to conceal my Thoughts,
Nor carry Smiles and Sun-shine in my Face,
When Discontent sits heavy at my Heart.
I have not yet so much the Roman in me.

Jub.
Why do'st thou cast out such ungen'rous Terms
Against the Lords and Sov'reigns of the World?
Dost thou not see Mankind fall down before 'em,
And own the Force of their Superior Virtue?
Is there a Nation in the Wilds of Africk,
Amidst our barren Rocks and burning Sands,
That does not tremble at the Roman Name?

Syph.
Gods! where's the Worth that sets this People up
Above your own Numidia's tawny Sons!
Do they with tougher Sinews bend the Bow?
Or flies the Javelin swifter to its Mark,
Launch'd from the Vigour of a Roman Arm?
Who like our active African instructs
The fiery Steed, and trains him to his Hand?
Or guide's in Troops th'embattled Elephant,
Loaden with War? These, 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 placed in Bones and Nerves.
A Roman Soul is bent on higher Views:
To civilize the rude unpolish'd World,
And lay it under the Restraint of Laws;
To make Man mild and sociable to Man;
To cultivate the wild licentious Savage
With Wisdom, Discipline, and lib'ral Arts;
Th'Embellishments of Life: Virtues like these,
Make Human Nature shine, reform the Soul,
And break our fierce Barbarians into Men.

Syph.
Patience kind Heav'ns!—Excuse an old Man's warmth.
What are these wond'rous civilizing Arts,
This Roman Polish, and this smooth Behaviour,
That render Man thus tractable and tame?
Are they not only to disguise our Passions,
To set our Looks at variance with our Thoughts,
To check the Starts and Sallies 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 design'd us?

Jub.
To strike thee Dumb: Turn up thy Eyes to Cato!
There may'st thou see to what a Godlike Height
The Roman Virtues lift up mortal Man.
While good, and just, and anxious for his Friends,
He's still severely bent against himself;
Renouncing Sleep, and Rest, and Food, and Ease,
He strives with Thirst and Hunger, Toil and Heat;
And when his Fortune sets before him all
The Pomps and Pleasures that his Soul can wish,
His rigid Virtue will accept of none.

Syph.
Believe me, Prince, there's not an African
That traverses our vast Numidian Desarts
In quest of Prey, and lives upon his Bow,
But better practises these boasted Virtues.
Coarse are his Meals, the Fortune of the Chase,
Amidst the running Stream he slakes his Thirst,
Toil's all the Day, and at th'approach of Night
On the first friendly Bank he throws him down,
Or rests his Head upon a Rock 'till Morn:
Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted Game,
And if the following Day he chance to find
A new Repast, or an untasted Spring,
Blesses his Stars, 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 cou'd with equal Glory
Look down on Pleasures and the Baits of Sense;
Where shall we find the Man that bears Affliction,
Great and Majestick in his Griefs, like Cato?
Heav'ns, with what Strength, what Steadiness of Mind,
He Triumphs in the midst of all his Sufferings!
How does he rise against a Load of Woes,
And thank the Gods that throw the Weight upon him!

Syph.
'Tis Pride, rank Pride, and Haughtiness of Soul:
I think the Romans call it Stoicism.
Had not your Royal Father thought so highly
Of Roman Virtue, and of Cato's Cause,
He had not fall'n by a Slave's Hand inglorious:
Nor would his slaughter'd Army now have lain
On Africk's Sands, disfigur'd with their Wounds,
To gorge the Wolves and Vultures of Numidia.

Jub.
Why do'st thou call my Sorrows up afresh?
My Father's Name brings Tears into my Eyes.

Syph.
Oh, that you'd profit by your Father's ills!

Jub.
What wou'dst thou have me do?

Syph.
Abandon Cato.

Jub.
Syphax, I shou'd be more than twice an Orphan
By such a Loss.

Syph.
Ay, there's the Tie that binds you!
You long to call him Father. Marcia's Charms
Work in your Heart unseen, and plead for Cato.
No wonder you are deaf to all I say.

Jub.
Syphax, your Zeal becomes importunate,
I've hitherto permitted it to rave,
And talk at large; but learn to keep it in,
Least it should take more Freedom than I'll give it.

Syph.
Sir, your great Father never used me thus.
Alas, he's Dead! But can you e'er forget
The tender Sorrows, and the Pangs of Nature,
The fond Embraces, and repeated Blessings,
Which you drew from him in your last Farewel?
Still must I cherish the dear sad Remembrance,
At once to torture and to please my Soul.
The good old King, at parting, wrung my Hand,
(His Eyes brim-full of Tears) then sighing cry'd,
Prithee be careful of my Son!—his Grief
Swell'd up so high he could not utter more.

Jub.
Alas, thy Story melts away my Soul.
That best of Fathers! how shall I discharge
The Gratitude and Duty, which I owe him!

Syph.
By laying up his Councils in your Heart.

Jub.
His Councils bade me yield to thy Directions:
Then, Syphax, chide me in severest Terms,
Vent all thy Passion, and I'll stand its shock,
Calm and unruffled as a Summer-Sea,
When not a Breath of Wind flie's o'er its Surface.

Syph.
Alas, my Prince, I'd guide you to your Safety.

Jub.
I do believe thou wou'dst; but tell me how?

Syph.
Fly from the Fate that follows Cæsar's Foes.

Jub.
My Father scorn'd to do't.

Syph.
And therefore dy'd.

Jub.
Better to die ten thousand thousand Deaths,
Than wound my Honour.

Syph.
Rather say your Love.

Jub.
Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my Temper.
Why wilt thou urge me to confess a Flame,
I long have stifled, and wou'd fain conceal?

Syph.
Believe me, Prince, 'tis hard to conquer Love,
But easie to divert and break its Force:
Absence might cure it, or a second Mistress
Light up another Flame, and put out this.
The glowing Dames of Zama's Royal Court
Have Faces flusht with more exalted Charms.
The Sun, that rolls his Chariot o'er their Heads,
Works up more Fire and Colour in their Cheeks:
Were you with these, my Prince, you'd soon forget
The pale unripen'd Beauties of the North.

Jub.
'Tis not a Sett of Features, or Complexion,
The Tincture of a Skin, that I admire.
Beauty soon grows familiar to the Lover,
Fades in his Eye, and palls upon the Sense.
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her Sex:
True, she is fair, (Oh, how divinely fair!)
But still the lovely Maid improves her Charms
With inward Greatness, unaffected Wisdom,
And Sanctity of Manners. Cato's Soul
Shines out in every thing she 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!
But on my Knees I beg you wou'd consider—

Enter Marcia and Lucia.
Jub.
Hah! Syphax, is't not she!—She moves this Way:
And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair Daughter,
My Heart beats thick—I prithee Syphax leave me.

Syph.
Ten thousand Curses fasten on 'em both!
Now will this Woman with a single Glance
Undo, what I've been lab'ring all this while.

[Exit.
Juba, Marcia, Lucia.
Jub.
Hail charming Maid, how does thy Beauty smooth
The Face of War, and make ev'n Horror smile!
At Sight of thee my Heart shakes off its Sorrows;
I feel a Dawn of Joy break in upon me,
And for a while forget th'Approach of Cæsar.

Mar.
I shou'd be griev'd, young Prince, to think my Presence
Unbent your Thoughts, and slacken'd 'em to Arms,
While, warm with Slaughter, our victorious Foe,
Threatens aloud, and calls you to the Field.

Jub.
O Marcia, let me hope thy kind Concerns
And gentle Wishes follow me to Battel!
The Thought will give new Vigour to my Arm,
Add Strength and Weight to my descending Sword,
And drive it in a Tempest on the Foe.

Marc.
My Prayers and Wishes always shall attend
The Friends of Rome, the glorious Cause of Virtue,
And Men approv'd of by the Gods and Cato.

Jub.
That Juba may deserve thy pious Cares,
I'll gaze for ever on thy Godlike Father,
Transplanting, one by one, into my Life
His bright Perfections, 'till I shine like him.

Marc.
My Father never at a Time like this
Wou'd lay out his great Soul in Words, and waste
Such precious Moments.

Jub.
Thy Reproofs are just,
Thou virtuous Maid; I'll hasten to my Troops,
And fire their languid Souls with Cato's Virtue;
If e're I lead them to the Field, when all
The War shall stand ranged in its just Array,
And dreadful Pomp: Then will I think on thee!
O lovely Maid, Then will I think on Thee!
And, in the shock of charging Hosts, remember
What glorious Deeds shou'd grace the Man, who hopes
For Marcia's Love.

[Exit.
Luc.
Marcia, you're too severe:
How cou'd you chide the young good-natured Prince,
And drive him from you with so stern an Air,
A Prince that loves and dotes on you to Death?

Mar.
'Tis therefore, Lucia, that I chide him from me.
His Air, his Voice, his Looks, and honest Soul
Speak all so movingly in his Behalf,
I dare not trust my self to hear him talk.

Luc.
Why will you fight against so sweet a Passion,
And steel your Heart to such a World of Charms?

Mar.
How, Lucia, wou'dst thou have me sink away
In pleasing Dreams, and lose my self in Love,
When ev'ry moment Cato's Life's at Stake?
Cæsar comes arm'd with Terror and Revenge,
And aims his Thunder at my Father's Head:
Shou'd not the sad Occasion swallow up
My other Cares, and draw them all into it?

Luc.
Why have not I this Constancy of Mind;
Who have so many Griefs to try its Force?
Sure, Nature form'd me of her softest Mould,
Enfeebled all my Soul with tender Passions,
And sunk me ev'n below my own weak Sex:
Pity and Love, by turns, oppress my Heart.

Mar.
Lucia, disburthen all thy Cares on me,
And let me share thy most retired Distress;
Tell me who raises up this Conflict in thee?

Luc.
I need not blush to name them, when I tell thee
They're Marcia's Brothers, and the Sons of Cato.

Mar.
They both behold thee with their Sister's Eyes:
And often have reveal'd their Passion to me.
But tell me, whose Address thou favour'st most?
I long to know, and yet I dread to hear it.

Luc.
Which is it Marcia wishes for?

Mar.
For neither—
And yet for both—The Youths have equal Share
In Marcia's Wishes, and divide their Sister:
But tell me which of them is Lucia's Choice?

Luc.
Marcia, they both are high in my Esteem,
But in my Love—Why wilt thou make me name him?
Thou know'st it is a blind and foolish Passion,
Pleas'd and disgusted with it knows not what.

Mar.
O Lucia, I'm perplex'd, O tell me which
I must hereafter call my happy Brother?

Luc.
Suppose 'twere Portius, cou'd you blame my Choice?
O Portius, thou hast stol'n away my Soul!
With what a graceful Tenderness he loves!
And breath's the softest, the sincerest Vows!
Complacency, and Truth, and manly Sweetness
Dwell ever on his Tongue, and smooth his Thoughts.
Marcus is over-warm, his fond Complaints
Have so much Earnestness and Passion in them,
I hear him with a secret kind of Dread,
And tremble at his Vehemence of Temper.

Mar.
Alas poor Youth! how can'st thou throw him from thee?
Lucia, thou know'st not half the Love he bears thee;
Whene'er he speaks of thee, his Heart's in Flames,
He sends out all his Soul in ev'ry Word,
And thinks, and talks, and looks like one transported.
Unhappy Youth! how will thy Coldness raise
Tempests and Storms in his afflicted Bosom!
I dread the Consequence—

Luc.
You seem to plead
Against your Brother Portius—

Mar.
Heav'n forbid!
Had Portius been the unsuccessful Lover,
The same Compassion wou'd have fall'n on him.

Luc.
Was ever Virgin Love distrest like mine!
Portius himself oft falls in Tears before me,
As if he mourn'd his Rival's ill Success,
Then bids me hide the Motions of my Heart,
Nor show which Way it turns. So much he fears
The sad Effects, that it would have on Marcus.

Mar.
He knows too well how easily he's fired,
And wou'd not plunge his Brother in Despair,
But waits for happier Times, and kinder Moments.

Luc.
Alas, too late I find my self involved
In endless Griefs and Labyrinths of Woe,
Born to afflict my Marcia's Family,
And sow Dissention in the Hearts of Brothers.
Tormenting Thought! it cuts into my Soul.

Mar.

[Exeunt.