He's lost, Sempronius! all his thoughts are full
Of Cato's virtues!-But I'll try once more,
For every instant I expect him here,
If yet I can subdue those stubborn principles
Of faith, of honour, and I know not what,
That have corrupted his Numidian temper,
And struck the infection into all his soul.
Sem. Be sure to press upon him every motive:
Juba's surrender, since his father's death,
Would give up Africk into Cæsar's hands,
And make him lord of half the burning zone.
Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate
Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious:
Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern
Our frauds, unless they're cover'd thick with art.
Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax: I'll conceal
My thoughts in passion: 'tis the surest way:
I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country,
And mouth at Cæsar, till I shake the senate :
Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device,
A worn-out trick: would'st thou be thought in earnest, Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury.
Syph. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs,
And teach the wily African deceit.
Sem. Once more, be sure to try thy skill on Juba.
Meanwhile I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers, (L.)
Inflame the mutiny, and, underhand,
Blow up their discontents, till they break out
Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato.
Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste;
O think, what anxious moments pass between
The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods;
It is a dreadful interval of time,
Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death;
Destruction hangs on every word we speak,
On every thought, till the concluding stroke
Determines all, and closes our design.
[Exit, L.
Syph. (c.) I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason
This headstrong youth, and make him spurn at Cato.
The time is short; Cæsar comes rushing on us ;-
But hold-Young Juba sees me, and approaches.
Juba. (R.) Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone.
I have observ'd of late thy looks are fallen,
O'ercast with gloomy cares and discontent:
Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee tell me, (R. C.)
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 sunshine in my face,
When discontent sits heavy at my heart;
I have not yet so much the Roman in me.
Juba. Why dost thou cast out such ungenerous terms Against these wonderous sovereigns of the world? Dost thou not see mankind fall down before 'em, And own the force of their superior virtue?
Syph. Gods! where's the worth that sets this people
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 guides in troops the embattled elephant,
Loaden with war? These, these are arts, my prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.
Juba. These all are virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are plac'd in bones and nerves:
A Roman soul is bent on higher views.
To make man mild, and sociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious savage
With wisdom, discipline, and liberal arts-
The embellishments of life; virtues like these
Make human nature shine, reform the soul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men. (L.)
Syph. Patience, kind heavens !-Excuse an old man's
warmth;
What are these wonderous 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?
In short, to change us into other creatures
Than what our nature and the gods design'd us?
Juba. To strike thee dumb, turn up thy eyes to
There may'st thou see to what a godlike height
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man :
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 our soul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.
Syph. Believe me, prince, there's not an African
That traverses our vast Numidian deserts
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,
Toils all the day, and, at the 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.
Juba. 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 could, with equal glory,
Look down on pleasures and the baits of sense,
Where shall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
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 fallen, 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.
Juba. Why dost 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!
Juba. What would'st thou have me do?
Syph. Abandon Cato.
Juba. Never:-I should 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.
Juba. No more ;-your zeal becomes importuna I've hitherto permitted it to rave,
And talk at large: but learn to keep it in,
Lest it should take more freedom than I'll give it.
Syph. Yet hear me, prince, tho' hard to co
love,
"Tis easy 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 flush'd with more exalted charms ; ;
The sun, that rolls his chariot o'er their head is people
Works up more fire and colour in their cheeks
Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon forg
The pale unripen'd beauties of the north.
Juba. "Tis not a set of features, nor 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 towers above her sex:
True, she is fair-O 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. (L.)
Syph. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise!
But, on my knees, I beg you would consider
Juba. Ha! is't not she ?-It is:-she moves this
And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter.
My heart beats thick.-I pr'ythee, Syphax, leave me.
Syph. Ten thousand curses fasten on them both!
Now will this woman, with a single glance,
Undo what I've been labouring all this while.
Enter MARCIA and LUCIA, R.
Juba. (L. c.) Hail, charming maid! How does thy
= The face of war, and make even 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 the approach of Cæsar.
Mar. (c.) I should be griev'd, young prince, to
think my presence
Unbent your thoughts, and slacken'd them to arms,
While, warm with slaughter, our victorious foe
Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field.
Juba. (R. C.) O, Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns
And gentle wishes follow me to battle:
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.
Mar. 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.
Juba. 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.
Mar. My father never at a time like this
Would lay out his great soul in words, and waste
Such precious moments.
Juba. Thy reproofs are just,
Thou virtuous maid. I'll hasten to my troops,
And fire their languid souls with Cato's virtue.
If e'er I lead them to the field, when all
The war shall stand rang'd 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 should grace the man who hopes
For Marcia's love.
[Exit, L.
Luc. Marcia, you're too severe :
How could you chide, and drive so sternly from you,
A prince that loves and dotes on you to death?
Mar. How, Lucia! would'st thou have me sink away
In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love,
When every moment Cato's life's at stake?
Luc. Why have not I this constancy of mind,
Who have so many griefs to try its force?
Pity and love, by turns, oppress my heart.
Mar. Lucia, disburthen all thy cares on me,
And let me share thy most retir'd distress:
Tell me, who raises up this conflict in thee?
|