 | Cato |  |
SCENE I.
Portius, Marcus.Por.
The Dawn is over-cast, the Morning low'rs,
And heavily in Clouds brings on the Day,
The great, th'important Day; big with the Fate
Of Cato and of Rome.—Our Father's Death
Would fill up all the Guilt of Civil War,
And close the Scene of Blood. Already Cæsar
Has ravaged more than half the Globe, and sees
Mankind grown thin by his destructive Sword:
Should he go further, Numbers would be wanting
To form new Battels, and support his Crimes.
Ye Gods, what Havock does Ambition make
Among your Works!
Marc.
Thy steddy Temper, Portius,
Can look on Guilt, Rebellion, Fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm Lights of mild Philosophy;
I'm tortured, ev'n to Madness, when I think
On the proud Victor; ev'ry time he's named
Pharsalia rises to my View—I see
2
Strow'd with Rome's Citizens, and drench'd in Slaughter,
His Horse's Hoofs wet with Patrician Blood.
Oh Portius, is there not some chosen Curse,
Some hidden Thunder in the Stores of Heav'n,
Red with uncommon Wrath, to blast the Man
Who owes his Greatness to his Country's Ruin?
Por.
Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious Greatness,
And mixt with too much Horrour to be envy'd:
How does the Lustre of our Father's Actions,
Through the dark Cloud of Ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant Brightness!
His Suff'rings shine, and spread a Glory round him;
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the Cause
Of Honour, Virtue, Liberty, and Rome.
His Sword ne'er fell but on the Guilty Head;
Oppression, Tyranny, and Pow'r usurp'd,
Draw all the Vengeance of his Arm upon 'em.
Marc.
Who knows not this? But what can Cato do
Against a World, a base degenerate World,
That court's the Yoke, and bows the Neck to Cæsar?
Pent up in Utica he vainly forms
A poor Epitome of Roman Greatness,
And, cover'd with Numidian Guards, directs
A feeble Army, and an empty Senate,
Remnants of mighty Battels fought in vain.
By Heav'ns, such Virtues, join'd with such Success,
Distract my very Soul: Our Father's Fortune
Wou'd almost tempt us to renounce his Precepts.
Por.
Remember what our Father oft has told us:
The Ways of Heav'n are dark and intricate,
Puzzled in Mazes, and perplext with Errors;
Our Understanding traces 'em in vain,
Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless Search;
Nor sees with how much Art the Windings run,
Nor where the regular Confusion ends.
3
These are Suggestions of a Mind at Ease:
Oh Portius, didst thou taste but half the Griefs
That wring my Soul, thou cou'dst not talk thus calmly.
Passion unpity'd, and successless Love,
Plant Daggers in my Heart, and aggravate
My other Griefs. Were but my Lucia kind!—
Por.
Thou see'st not that thy Brother is thy Rival:
But I must hide it, for I know thy Temper.
[Aside.
But I must hide it, for I know thy Temper.
Now, Marcus, now, thy Virtue's on the Proof:
Put forth thy utmost Strength, work ev'ry Nerve,
And call up all thy Father in thy Soul:
To quell the Tyrant Love, and guard thy Heart
On this weak Side, where most our Nature fails,
Would be a Conquest worthy Cato's Son.
Put forth thy utmost Strength, work ev'ry Nerve,
And call up all thy Father in thy Soul:
To quell the Tyrant Love, and guard thy Heart
On this weak Side, where most our Nature fails,
Would be a Conquest worthy Cato's Son.
Marc.
Portius, the Council which I cannot take,
Instead of healing, but upbraids my Weakness.
Bid me for Honour plunge into a War
Of thickest Foes, and rush on certain Death,
Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not slow
To follow Glory, and confess his Father.
Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost
In high Ambition, and a Thirst of Greatness;
'Tis second Life, it grows into the Soul,
Warms ev'ry Vein, and beats in ev'ry Pulse,
I feel it here: My Resolution melts—
Por.
Behold young Juba, the Numidian Prince!
With how much Care he forms himself to Glory,
And breaks the Fierceness of his Native Temper
To copy out our Father's bright Example.
He loves our Sister Marcia, greatly loves her,
His Eyes, his Looks, his Actions all betray it:
But still the smother'd Fondness burns within him.
When most it swells and labours for a Vent,
Then Sense of Honour and Desire of Fame
Drive the big Passion back into his Heart.
What! shall an African, shall Juba's Heir
Reproach great Cato's Son, and show the World
4
Marc.
Portius, no more! your Words leave Stings behind 'em.
When-e're did Juba, or did Portius, show
A Virtue that has cast me at a Distance,
And thrown me out in the Pursuits of Honour?
Por.
Marcus, I know thy generous Temper well;
Fling but th'Appearance of Dishonour on it,
It strait takes Fire, and mounts into a Blaze.
Marc.
A Brother's Suff'rings claim a Brother's Pity.
Por.
Heav'n knows I pity thee: Behold my Eyes
Ev'n whilst I speak.—Do they not swim in Tears?
Were but my Heart as naked to thy View,
Marcus would see it bleed in his Behalf.
Marc.
Why then dost treat me with Rebukes, instead
Of kind condoling Cares and friendly Sorrow?
Por.
O Marcus, did I know the Way to ease
Thy troubled Heart, and mitigate thy Pains,
Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it.
Marc.
Thou best of Brothers, and thou best of Friends!
Pardon a weak distemper'd Soul, that swells
With sudden Gusts, and sinks as soon in Calms,
The Sport of Passions—But Sempronius comes:
He must not find this Softness hanging on me.
[Exit.
| Cato | |