Cato - Joseph Addison

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Act the first.

Scene one.

A hall.

Enter Portius and Marcus.

The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers, and heavily in clouds brings on the day, the great, the important day, big with 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 Caesar has ravaged more than half the globe and sees mankind grown thin by his destructive sword.

Should he go farther, numbers would be wanting to form new battles and support his crimes.

Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make among your works?

Thy steady temper, Portius, can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Caesar in the calm lights of mild philosophy.

I'm tortured into madness when I think on the proud victor.

Every time he's named, Pharsalia rises to my view.

I see the insulting tyrant prancing over the field strewed with Rome's citizens and drenched in slaughter, his horses' hoofs wet with patrician blood.

O Portius, is there not some chosen curse, some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?

Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness and mixed with too much horror to be envied.

How does the luster of our father's actions, through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, break out and burn with more triumphant brightness.

His sufferings shine and spread a glory round him.

Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause of honor, virtue, liberty, and Rome.

His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head.

Oppression, tyranny, and power usurped draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them.

Who knows not this? But what can Cato do against a world, a base degenerate world, that courts the yoke and bows the neck to Caesar? Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms a poor epitome of Roman greatness and, covered with Numidian guards, directs a feeble army at an empty senate, remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.

By heaven, such virtue joined with such success distracts my very soul.

Our father's fortune would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.

Remember what our father oft has told us.

The ways of heaven are dark and intricate, puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with errors.

Our understanding traces them in vain, lost and bewildered in the fruitless search, nor sees with how much art the windings run, nor where the regular confusion ends.

These are suggestions of a mind at ease.

O Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs that wring my soul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly.

Passion unpitied and successless love plant daggers in my heart and aggravate my other griefs.

Were but my Lucia kind.

Portius aside.

Thou seest not that thy brother is thy rival, but I must hide it, for I know thy temper.

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 smothered fondness burns within him.

When most it swells and labors for a vent, the sense of honor 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 of virtue wanting in a Roman soul?

soul?Portius, no more.

Your words leave stings behind them.

Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius show a virtue that has cast me at a distance and thrown me out in the pursuit of honor?

Marcus, I know thy generous temper well.

Fling but the appearance of dishonor on it, it straight takes fire and mounts into a blaze.

A brother's sufferings claim a brother's pity.

Heaven knows I pity thee.

Behold my eyes.

Even 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.

Why then dost treat me with rebukes instead of kind condoling cares and friendly sorrow?

Oh, Marcus, did I know the way to ease thy troubled heart and mitigate thy pains, Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it.

Thou best of brothers and thou best of friends, pardon a weak, distempered 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 Marcus.

Enter Sempronius.

Sempronius aside.

Conspiracies no sooner should be formed than executed.

What means Portius here? I like not that cold youth.

I must dissemble and speak a language foreign to my heart.

Good morrow, Portius.

Let us once embrace, once more embrace while yet we both are free.

Tomorrow, should we thus express our friendship, each might receive a slave into his arms.

This sun, perhaps this morning sun's the last ere shall rise on Roman liberty.

My father has this morning called together to this poor hall his little Roman senate, the leavings of Pharsalia, to consult if he can yet oppose the mighty torrent that bears down Rome and all her gods before it, or must at length give up the world to Caesar.

Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome can raise our senate more than Cato's presence.

His virtues render our assembly awful.

They strike with something like religious fear and make even Caesar tremble at the head of armies flushed with conquest.

Oh, my Portius, could I but call that wondrous man my father.

Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious to thy friend's vows, I might be blest indeed.

Alas, Sempronius, wouldst thou talk of love to Marcia whilst her father's life's in danger? Thou mightst as well court the pale trembling vestal when she beholds the holy flame expiring.

The more I see the wonders of thy race, the more I'm charmed.

Thou must take heed, my Portius.

The world has all its eyes on Cato's son.

Thy father's merit sets thee up to view and shows thee in the fairest point of light to make thy virtues or thy faults conspicuous.

Well, dost thou seem to check my lingering here in this important hour.

I'll straight away, and while the fathers of the senate meet in close debate to weigh the events of war, I'll animate the soldiers' drooping courage with love of freedom and contempt of life.

I'll thunder in their ears their country's cause and try to rouse up all that's Roman in them.

'Tis not in mortals to command success, but we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it.

Exit.

Curse on that stripling.

How he apes his sire, ambitiously sententious.

But I wonder old Cyphax comes not.

His Numidian genius is well disposed to mischief, for he's prompt and eager on it, but he must be spurred and every moment quickened to the course.

Cato has used me ill.

He has refused his daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.

Besides, his baffled arms and ruined cause are bars to my ambition.

Caesar's favor that showers down greatness on his friends will raise me to Rome's finest honors.

If I give up Cato, I claim in my reward his captive daughter.

But Cyphax comes.

Enter Cyphax.

Sempronius, all is ready.

I've sounded my Numidians man by man and find them ripe for a revolt.

They all complain aloud of Cato's discipline and wait but the command to change their master.

Believe me, Cyphax, there's no time to waste.

Even while we speak, our conqueror comes on and gathers ground upon us every moment.

Alas, thou know'st not Caesar's active soul, with what a dreadful course he rushes on from war to war.

In vain has nature formed mountains and oceans to oppose his passage.

He bounds o'er all.

One day more will set the victor thundering at our gates.

But tell me, hast thou yet drawn o'er young Juba that still would recommend thee more to Caesar and challenge better terms?

Alas, he's lost.

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 and honor, and I know not what that have corrupted his Numidian temper and struck the infection into all his soul.

Be sure to press upon him every motive.

Juba's surrender since his father's death would give up African to Caesar's hands and make him lord of half the burning zone.

But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate is called together? Gods, thou must be cautious.

Cato has piercing eyes and will discern our frauds unless they are covered thick with art.

Let me alone, good Cyphax.

I'll conceal my thoughts in passion.

'Tis the surest way.

I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country and mouth at Caesar till I shake the senate.

Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device, a worn-out trick.

Wouldst thou be thought in earnest, clothe thy feigned zeal and rage in fire and fury

furyIn troth, thou art able to instruct gray hairs and teach the wily African deceit.

Once more be sure to try thy skill on Juba.

Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste.

O think what anxious moments pass between the birth of plots and their last fatal periods! O, 'tis a dreadful interval of time, filled up with horror all, and big with death.

Destruction hangs on every word we speak and every thought till the concluding stroke determines all and closes our design.

Exit.

I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason this headstrong youth and make him spurn at Cato.

The time is short.

Caesar comes rushing on us.

But hold, young Juba sees me and approaches.

Enter Juba.

Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone.

I've observed of late thy looks are fallen, 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?

'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts or carry smiles and sunshine in my face when discontent sits heavy at my heart.

I have not yet so much the Roman in me.

Why dost thou cast out such ungenerous terms against the lords and sovereigns of the world? Dost thou not see mankind fall down before them and own the force of their superior virtue? Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric amidst our barren rocks and burning sands that does not tremble at the Roman name?

Gods, where's the worth that sets these 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, launched from the vigor 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 laden with war? These, these are the arts, my prince, in which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.

These all are virtues of a meaner rank, perfections that are placed in bones and nerves.

A Roman soul is bent on higher views.

Turn up thy eyes to Cato.

There mayest 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.

And when his fortune sets before him all the pomps and pleasures that his soul can wish, his rigid virtue will accept of none.

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 practices those 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.

Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern what virtues grow from ignorance and choice, nor how the hero differs from the brute.

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 threw the weight upon him?

'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.

Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh? My father's name brings tears into my eyes.

Oh, that you profit by your father's ills.

What wouldst thou have me do?

Abandon Cato.

Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan by such a loss.

Aye, there's the tie that binds you.

You long to call him father.

Masya's charms works in your heart unseed and plead for Cato.

No wonder you are deaf to all I say.

Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate.

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.

Sir, your great father never used me thus.

Alas, he's dead.

But can you e'er forget the tender sorrows and repeated blessings which you drew from him in your last farewell? The good old king, at parting, wrung my hand.

His eyes brimmed full of tears.

Then sighing cried, "Prithee, be careful of my son." His grief swelled up so high he could not utter more.

Alas, thy story melts away my soul.

That best of fathers, how shall I discharge the gratitude and duty that I owe him?

By laying up his counsels in your heart.

heart.His counsels bade me yield to thy direction.

Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms, vent all thy passion, and I'll stand its shock, calm and unruffled as a summer's sea when not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface

Alas, my prince, I'd guide you to your safety

I do believe thou wouldst.

But tell me how

Fly from the fate that follows Caesar's foes

My father scorned to do it

And therefore died

Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths than wound my honor

Rather say your love

Syphax, I've promised to preserve my temper.

Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame I long have stifled and would fain conceal?

Believe me, prince, though hard to conquer 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.

Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon forget the pale unripen'd beauties of the north

'Tis not a set 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 towers 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 everything she acts or speaks, while winning mildness and attractive smiles dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace soften the rigor of her father's virtue

How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise! But on my knees I beg you would consider-

Ha, Syphax, is't not she? She moves this way, and with her Lucia, Lucius' fair daughter.

My heart beats thick.

I prithee, Syphax, leave me

Ten thousand curses fasten on them both.

Now will the woman with a single glance undo what I have been laboring all this while.

Exit Syphax.

Enter Marcia and Lucia

Hail, charming maid! How does thy beauty smooth 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 Caesar

I should be grieved, young prince, to think my presence unbent your thoughts and slackened them to arms, while warm with slaughter our victorious foe threatens aloud and calls you to the field

O Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns and gentle wishes follow me to battle.

The thought will give new vigor to my arm and strengthen weight to my descending sword, and drive it in a tempest on the foe

My prayers and wishes always shall attend the friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue, and men approved by the gods and Cato

That Juba may deserve thy pious cares, I'll gaze forever on thy godlike father, transplanting one by one into my life his bright perfections till I shine like him

My father never at a time like this would lay out his great soul in words and waste such precious moments

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 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 should grace the man who hopes for Marcia's love

Exit Juba

Marcia, you're too severe.

How could 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

'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 myself to hear him talk

Why will you fight against so sweet a passion and steel your heart to such a world of charms?

How, Lucia, wouldst thou have me sink away in pleasing dreams and lose myself in love when every moment Cato's life's at stake? Caesar comes armed with terror and revenge, and aims his thunder at my father's head.

Should not the sad occasion swallow up my other cares?

Ah, why have I not this constancy of mind, who have so many griefs to try its force? Sure nature form'd me of her softest mold, enfeebled all my soul with tender passions, and sunk me even below my own weak sex.

Pity and love by turns oppress my heart

Lucia, disburden all thy cares on me, and let me share thy most retired distress.

Tell me, who raises up this conflict in thee?

thee?I need not blush to name them when I tell thee they're Marcius' brothers and the sons of Cato.

They both behold thee with their sister's eyes, and often have revealed their passion to me.

But tell me, which of them is Lucius' choice?

Supposed 'twere Porcius, could you blame my choice? O Porcius, thou hast stolen away my soul! Marcus is overwarm; his fond complaints have so much earnestness and passion in them, I hear him with a secret kind of horror and tremble at his vehemence of temper.

Alas, poor youth! How will thy coldness raise tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom! I dread the consequence.

You seem to plead against your brother Porcius.

Heaven forbid! Had Porcius been the unsuccessful lover, the same compassion would have fallen on him.

Or several virgin love distressed like mine.

Porcius 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 effect that it will have on Marcus.

Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our sorrows, but to the gods submit the event of things.

Our lives, discolored with our present woes, may still grow bright, and smile with happier hours.

So the pure limpid stream, when foul with stains Of rushing torrents and descending rains, Works itself clear, and, as it runs, refines, Till by degrees the floating mirror shines, Reflects each flower that on the border grows, And a new heaven in its fair bosom shows.

Exeunt.

End of act 1.

Act the second.

Scene one.

The Senate sitting.

Flourish.

Enter Cato.

Fathers, we once again are met in council.

Caesar's approach has summoned us together, and Rome attends her fate from our resolves.

How shall we treat this bold aspiring man? Success still follows him and backs his crimes.

Pharsalia gave him Rome; Egypt has since received his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar's.

Why should I mention Juba's overthrow and Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands still smoke with blood.

'Tis time we should decree what course to take.

Our foe advances on us, and envies us even Libya's sultry deserts.

Fathers, pronounce your thoughts.

Are they still fixed to hold it out and fight it to the last? Or are your hearts subdued at length and wrought by time and ill success to a submission? Sempronius, speak.

Gods! Can Rome's senate long debate which of the two to choose, slavery or death? No! Let us rise at once, gird on our swords, and, at the head of our remaining troops, attack the foe, break through the thick array of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him.

Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, may reach his heart and free the world from bondage.

Rise, fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands your help.

Rise and revenge her slaughtered citizens, or share their fate.

To battle! Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, and Scipio's ghost walks unavenged amongst us.

Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason.

True fortitude is seen in great exploits that justice warrants and that wisdom guides; all else is towering frenzy and distraction.

Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.

My thoughts, I must confess, are turned on peace.

Already have our quarrels filled the world with widows and with orphans.

Scythia mourns our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome.

'Tis time to sheathe the sword and spare mankind.

Already have we shown our love to Rome; now let us show submission to the gods.

We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, but free the commonwealth.

When this end fails, arms have no further use.

Our country's cause, that drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands and bids us not delight in Roman blood unprofitably shed.

What men could do is done already.

Heaven and earth will witness, if Rome must fall, that we are innocent.

Let us appear nor rash nor diffident.

Immoderate valor swells into a fault, and fear, admitted into public councils, betrays like treason.

Let us shun them both.

Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs are grown thus desperate.

We have bulwarks round us.

Within our walls are troops inured to toil in Afric's heat and seasoned to the sun.

Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us, ready to rise at its young prince's call.

While there is hope, do not distrust the gods, but wait at least till Caesar's near approach.

Force us to yield.

'Twill never be too late to sue for chains and own a conqueror.

Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time? No, let us draw her term of freedom out in its full length and spin it to the last.

So shall we gain still one day's liberty.

And let me perish, but in Cato's judgment, a day, an hour of virtuous liberty is worth a whole eternity in bondage.

Enter Marcus.

Fathers, this moment as I watch'd the gate, lodg'd on my post, a herald is arrived from Caesar's camp, and with him comes old Decius, the Roman knight.

He carries in his looks impatience and demands to speak with Cato.

By your permission, fathers, bid him enter.

Exit Marcus.

Decius was once my friend, but other prospects have loosed those ties and bound him fast to Caesar.

His message may determine our resolves.

Enter Decius.

Caesar sends health to Cato.

Could he send it to Cato's slaughter'd friends, it would be welcome.

Are not your orders to address the Senate?

My business is with Cato.

Caesar sees the straits to which you're driven, and, as he knows Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life.

My life is grafted on the fate of Rome.

Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country.

Tell your dictator this, and tell him Cato disdains a life which he has power to offer.

Rome and her senators submit to Caesar.

Her generals and her councils are no more, who check'd his conquests and denied his triumphs.

Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend?

These very reasons thou hast urged forbid it.

Cato, I've orders to expostulate and reason with you as from friend to friend.

Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head and threatens every hour to burst upon it.

Still may you stand high in your country's honors.

Do but comply and make your peace with Caesar.

Rome will rejoice and cast its eyes on Cato as the second of mankind.

No more.

I must not think of life on such conditions.

Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues, and therefore sets this value on your life.

Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship, and name your terms.

Bid him disband his legions, restore the commonwealth to liberty, submit his actions to the public censure, and stand the judgment of a Roman Senate.

Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend.

Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom.

Nay, more, though Cato's voice was ne'er employ'd to clear the guilty and to varnish crimes, myself will mount the rostrum in his favor and strive to gain his pardon from the people.

A style like this becomes a conqueror.

Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman.

What is a Roman that is Caesar's foe?

Greater than Caesar.

He's a friend to virtue.

Consider, Cato, you're in Utica and at the head of your own little senate.

You do not thunder in the Capitol with all the mouths of Rome to second you.

Let him consider that who drives us hither.

'Tis Caesar's sword has made Rome's senate little and thinn'd its ranks.

Alas, thy dazzled eye beholds this man in a false glaring light which conquest and success have thrown upon him.

Didst thou but view him right, thou'dst see him black with murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes that strike my soul with horror but to name them.

I know thou look'st on me as on a wretch beset with ills and cover'd with misfortunes.

But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds should never buy me to be like that Caesar.

Does Cato send this answer back to Caesar for all his generous cares and proffer'd friendship?

His cares for me are insolent and vain.

Presumptuous man, the gods take care of Cato.

Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul, bid him employ his care for these my friends, and make good use of his ill-gotten power by sheltering men much better than himself.

Your high unconquer'd heart makes you forget you are a man.

You rush on your destruction.

destruction.But I have done.

When I relate hereafter the tale of this unhappy embassy, all Rome will be in tears.

Exit Decius.

Cato, we thank thee.

The mighty genius of immortal Rome speaks in thy voice.

Thy soul breathes liberty.

Caesar will shrink to hear the words thou utterest and shudder at them midst of all his conquests.

The Senate owes its gratitude to Cato, who with so great a soul consults its safety and guards our lives while he neglects his own.

Sempronius gives no thanks on this account.

Lucius seems fond of life.

But what is life? 'Tis not to stalk about and draw fresh air from time to time, or gaze upon the sun.

'Tis to be free.

When liberty is gone, life grows insipid.

Come, no more, Sempronius.

All here are friends to Rome and to each other.

Let us not weaken still the weaker side by our divisions.

Cato, my resentments are sacrificed to Rome.

I stand reproved.

Fathers, 'tis time you come to a resolve.

Cato, we all go in your opinion.

Caesar's behavior has convinced the Senate we ought to hold it out till terms arrive.

We ought to hold it out till death.

But Cato, my private voice is drowned amidst the Senate's.

Then let us rise, my friends, and strive to fill this little interval, this pause of life, while yet our liberty and fates are doubtful, with resolution, friendship, Roman bravery, and all the virtues we can crowd into it, that heaven may say it ought to be prolonged.

Fathers, farewell.

The young Numidian prince comes forward and expects to know our counsels.

Exeunt Senators.

Enter Juba.

Juba, the Roman Senate has resolved, till time give better prospects, still to keep the sword unsheathed and turn its edge on Caesar.

The resolution fits a Roman Senate.

But Cato, lend me for a while thy patience, and condescend to hear a young man speak.

My father, when some days before his death he ordered me to march for Utica, alas, I thought not then his death so near, wept o'er me, pressed me in his aged arms, and as his griefs gave way, "My son," said he, "whatever fortune shall befall thy father, be Cato's friend.

He will train thee up to great and virtuous deeds.

Do but observe him well.

Thou'lt shun misfortunes, or thou'lt learn to bear them."

Juba, thy father was a worthy prince, and merited, alas, a better fate, but heaven thought otherwise.

My father's fate, in spite of all the fortitude that shines before my face in Cato's great example, subdues my soul and fills my eyes with tears.

It is an honest sorrow, and becomes thee.

My father drew respect from foreign climes.

The kings of Afric sought him for their friend.

Kings far remote that rule, as fame reports, behind the hidden sources of the Nile, in distant worlds on t'other side the sun, oft have their black ambassadors appeared, loaden with gifts, and filled the courts of Zama.

I am no stranger to thy father's greatness.

I would not boast the greatness of my father, but point out new alliances to Cato.

Had we not better leave this Utica to arm Numidia in our cause and court the assistance of my father's powerful friends? Did they know Cato, our remotest kings would pour embattled multitudes about him.

Their swarthy hosts would darken all our plains, doubling the native horror of the war and making death more grim.

And canst thou think Cato will fly before the sword of Caesar, reduced, like Hannibal, to seek relief from court to court, and wander up and down a vagabond in Afric?

Cato, perhaps I'm too officious, but my forward cares would fain preserve a life of so much value.

My heart is wounded when I see such virtue afflicted by the weight of such misfortunes.

Thy nobleness of soul obliges me.

But know, young prince, that valor soars above what the world calls misfortune and affliction.

These are not ills, else would they never fall on heaven's first favorites and the best of men.

The gods in bounty work up storms about us that give mankind occasion to exert their hidden strength and throw out into practice virtues which shun the day and lie concealed in the smooth seasons and the calms of life.

I'm charmed whene'er thou talk'st.

I pant for virtue, and all my soul endeavors at perfection.

perfection.Dost thou love watchings, abstinence, and toil, laborious virtues all? Learn them from Cato.

Success and fortune must thou learn from Caesar.

The best good fortune that can fall on Juba, the whole success at which my heart aspires, depends on Cato.

What does Juba say? Thy words confound me.

I would fain retract them.

Give them me back again.

They aimed at nothing.

Tell me thy wish, young prince.

Make not my ear a stranger to thy thoughts.

Oh, they're extravagant.

Still, let me hide them.

What can Juba ask that Cato will refuse?

I fear to name it.

Marcia inherits all her father's virtues.

What wouldst thou say?

Cato, thou hast a daughter.

Adieu, young prince.

I would not hear a word should lessen thee in my esteem.

Remember, the hand of fate is over us, and heaven exacts severity from all our thoughts.

It is not now a time to talk of aught but chains or conquest, liberty or death.

Exit.

Enter Syphax.

How's this, my prince? What, cover'd with confusion? You look as if yon stern philosopher had just now chide you.

Syphax, I'm undone.

I know it well.

Cato thinks meanly of me.

And so will all mankind.

I've opened to him the weakness of my soul, my love for Marcia.

Cato's a proper person to entrust a love tale with.

Oh, I could pierce my heart, my foolish heart.

Alas, my prince, how are you changed of late.

I've known young Juba rise before the sun to beat the thicket where the tiger slept, or seek the lion in his dreadful haunts.

I've seen you, even in the Libyan dog days, hunt him down, then charge him close and, stooping from your horse, rivet the panting savage to the ground.

Prithee, no more.

How would the old king smile to see you weigh the paws when tipped with gold and throw the shaggy spoils about your shoulders.

Syphax, this old man's talk, though honey flowed in every word, would now lose all its sweetness, Cato's displeased and Marcia lost forever.

Young prince, I yet could give you good advice.

Marcia might still be yours.

As how, dear Syphax?

Juba commands Numidia's hardy troops, mounted on steeds unused to the restraint of curbs or bits, and fleeter than the winds.

Give but the word, we snatch this damsel up and bear her off.

Can such dishonest thoughts rise up in man? Wouldst thou seduce my youth to do an act that would destroy mine honor?

Gods, I could tear my hair to hear you talk.

Honor's a fine imaginary notion that draws in raw and inexperienced men to real mischiefs while they hunt a shadow.

Wouldst thou degrade thy prince into a ruffian?

The boasted ancestors of these great men whose virtues you admire were all such ruffians.

This dread of nations, this almighty Rome that comprehends in her wide empire's bounds all under heaven, was founded on a rape.

Your Scipios, Caesars, Pompeys, and your Catos, the gods on Earth, are all the spurious blood of violated maids, of ravished Sabines.

Syphax, I fear that hoary head of thine abounds too much in our Numidian wiles.

Indeed, my prince, you ought to know the world.

If knowledge of the world makes men perfidious, may Juba ever live in ignorance.

Go, go, you're young.

Gods, must I tamely bear this arrogance unanswered? Thou art a traitor, a false old traitor.

Syphax aside.

I've gone too far.

Cato shall know the baseness of thy soul.

Syphax aside.

I must appease this storm or perish in it.

Young prince, behold these locks that are grown white beneath a helmet in your father's battles.

Those locks shall ne'er protect thy insolence.

Must one rash word, the infirmity of age, throw down the merit of my better years? This the reward of a whole life of service.

Aside.

Curse on the boy, how steadily he hears me.

Syphax, no more.

I would not hear you talk.

Not hear me talk? What, when my faith to Juba, my royal master's son, is called in question? My prince may strike me dead, and I'll be dumb, but whilst I live, I must not hold my tongue and languish out old age in his displeasure.

Thou knowest the way too well into my heart.

I do believe thee loyal to thy prince.

What great instance can I give? I've offered to do thine action which my soul abhors, and gain you whom you love at any price.

Was this thy motive? I've been too hasty.

And 'tis for this my prince has called me traitor?

Sure thou mistakest.

I did not call thee so.

You did indeed, my prince.

You called me traitor.

Nay, further, threatened you'd complain to Cato.

Of what, my prince, would you complain to Cato? That Syphax loves you and would sacrifice his life, nay more, his honor in your service

serviceSyphax, I know thou lovest me, but indeed thy zeal for Juba carried thee too far.

Honor's a sacred tie, the law of kings, the noble mind's distinguishing perfection, that aids and strengthens virtue where it meets her, and imitates her actions where she is not.

It ought not to be sported with

Believe me, prince, you make old Syphax weep to hear you talk, but 'tis with tears of joy.

If e'er your father's crown adorn your brows, Numidia will be blest by Cato's lectures

Syphax, thy hand.

We'll mutually forget the warmth of youth and frowardness of age.

Thy prince esteems thy worth and loves thy person.

If e'er the scepter come into my hand, Syphax shall stand the second in my kingdom

Why will you overwhelm my age with kindness? My joys grow burdensome, I shan't support it

Syphax, farewell.

I'll hence and try to find some blest occasion that may set me right in Cato's thoughts.

I'd rather have that man approve my deeds than worlds for my admirers.

Exit

Young men soon give and soon forget affronts.

Old age is slow in both, a false old traitor.

These words, rash boy, may chance to cost thee dear.

My heart had still some foolish fondness for thee, but hence 'tis gone.

I give it to the winds.

Caesar, I am wholly thine

Enter Sempronius

All hail, Sempronius.

Well, Cato's senate is resolved to wait the fury of a siege before it yields

Syphax, we both are on the verge of fate.

Lucius declared for peace and terms were offered to Cato by a messenger from Caesar.

Should they submit ere our designs are ripe, we both must perish in the common wreck, lost in the general undistinguished ruin

But how stands Cato?

Thou hast seen Mount Atlas.

While storms and tempests thunder on its brows and oceans break their billows at its feet, it stands unmoved and glories in its height.

Such is that haughty man, his towering soul, midst all the shocks and injuries of fortune, rides superior and looks down on Caesar

But what's this messenger?

I've cracked his with him and found a means to let the victor know that Syphax and Sempronius are his friends.

But let me now examine in my turn.

Is Juba fixed?

Yes, but it is to Cato.

I've tried the force of every reason on him, soothed and caressed, been angry, soothed again, laid safety, life, and interest in his sight, but all are vain.

He scorns them all for Cato

Come, 'tis no matter.

We shall do without him.

He'll make a pretty figure in a triumph and serve to trip before the victor's chariot.

Syphax, I now may hope thou hast forsook thy Juba's cause and wishest Marcia mine

May she be thine as fast as thou wouldst have her

Syphax, I love that woman.

Though I curse her and myself, yet spite of me, I love her

Make Cato sure and give up Utica.

Caesar will ne'er refuse thee such a trifle.

But are thy troops prepared for a revolt? Does the sedition catch from man to man and run among the ranks?

All, all is ready.

The factious leaders are our friends that spread murmurs and discontents among the soldiers.

They count their toilsome marches, long fatigues, unusual fastings, and will hear no more this medley of philosophy and war.

Within an hour they'll storm the senate-house

Meanwhile, I'll drop my Numidian troops within the square to exercise their arms and, as I see occasion, favor thee.

I laugh to see how your unshaken Cato will look aghast while unforeseen destruction pours in upon him thus from every side.

So where our wide Numidian wastes extend, sudden though the imperious hurricanes descend, wheel through the air in circling eddies play, tear up the sand, and sweep whole plains away, the hapless traveler with wild surprise sees the dry desert all around him rise, and smothered in the dusty whirlwind dies

Exeunt.

End of act 2.

Act the third.

Scene one.

A chamber.

Enter Marcus and Portius

Thanks to my stars I have not ranged about the wilds of life ere I could find a friend.

Nature first pointed out my Portius to me and early taught me by a secret force to love thy person ere I knew thy merit, till what was instinct grew up into friendship

Marcus, the friendships of the world are oft confederacies in vice or leagues of pleasure.

Ours has severest virtue for its basis, and such a friendship ends not but with life

Portius, thou know'st my soul in all its weakness.

Then prithee spare me on its tender side.

Indulge me but in love.

My other passions shall rise and fall by virtue's nicest rules

When love's well-timed, 'tis not a fault to love.

The strong, the brave, the virtuous, and the wise sink in the soft captivity together

Alas, thou talk'st like one that never felt the impatient throbs and longings of a soul that pants and reaches after distant good.

A lover does not live by vulgar time.

Believe me, Portius, in my Lucia's absence, life hangs upon me and becomes a burden.

And yet, when I behold the charming maid, I'm ten times more undone, while hope and fear and grief and rage and love rise up at once and with variety of pain distract me

What can thy Portius do to give thee help?

Portius, thou oft enjoy'st the fair one's presence Then undertake my cause, and plead it to her with all the strength and heat of eloquence, fraternal love, and friendship can inspire.

Tell her thy brother languishes to death, and fades away, and withers in his bloom.

That he forgets his sleep and loathes his food.

That youth and health and war are joyless to him.

Describe his anxious days and restless nights, and all the torments that thou seest me suffer

Marcus, I beg thee, give me not an office that suits me so ill. Thou knowest my temper

Wilt thou behold me sinking in my woes, and wilt thou not reach out a friendly arm to raise me from amidst this plunge of sorrows?

Marcus, thou canst not ask what I'd refuse.

But here, believe me, I've a thousand reasons

I know thou'lt say my passion's out of season.

That Cato's great example and misfortune should both conspire to drive it from my thoughts.

But what's all this to one that loves like me? O Portius, Portius, from my soul I wish thou didst but know thyself what 'tis to love.

Then wouldst thou pity and assist thy brother

Portius, aside.

What should I do? If I disclose my passion, our friendship's at an end.

If I conceal it, the world will call me false to a friend and brother

But see where Lucia at her wonted hour, amid the cool of yon high marble arch, enjoys the noonday breeze.

Observe her, Portius.

That face, that shape, those eyes, that heaven of beauty.

Observe her well, and blame me if thou canst

She sees us and advances

I'll withdraw and leave you for a while.

Remember, Portius, thy brother's life depends upon thy tongue.

Exit.

Enter Lucia

Did not I see your brother Marcus here? Why did he fly the place and shun my presence?

Oh, Lucia, language is too faint to show his rage of love.

It preys upon his life.

He pines, he sickens, he despairs, he dies

How wilt thou guard thy honor in the shock of love and friendship? Think betimes, my Portius.

Think how the nuptial tie that might ensure our mutual bliss would raise to such a height thy brother's griefs as might perhaps destroy him

Alas, poor youth, what dost thou think, my Lucia? His generous, open, undesigning heart has begged his rival to solicit for him.

Then do not strike him dead with a denial

No, Portius, no.

I see thy sister's tears, thy father's anguish, and thy brother's death in the pursuit of our ill-fated loves.

And Portius, here I swear, to heaven I swear, to heaven and all the powers that judge mankind, never to mix my plighted hands with thine while such a cloud of mischief hangs upon us, but to forget our loves and drive thee out from all my thoughts as far as I am able

What hast thou said? I'm thunderstruck.

Recall those hasty words, or I am lost forever

Has not the vow already passed my lips? The gods have heard it and dissealed in heaven.

May all the vengeance that was ever poured on perjured heads overwhelm me if I break it

Fixed in astonishment, I gaze upon thee like one just blasted by a stroke from heaven, who pants for breath and stiffens, yet alive in dreadful looks, a monument of wrath

Think, Portius.

Think thou seest thy dying brother stabbed at his heart and all besmeared with blood, storming at heaven and thee.

Thy awful sire sternly demands the cause, the accursed cause that robs him of his son.

Poor Marcia trembles, then tears her hair, and frantic in her griefs, calls out on Lucia.

What could Lucia answer, or how stand up in such a scene of sorrow?

To my confusion and eternal grief, I must approve the sentence that destroys me

Portius, no more.

Thy words shoot through my heart, melt my resolves, and turn me all to love.

Why are those tears of fondness in thy eyes? Why heaves thy heart? Why swells thy soul with sorrow? It softens me too much.

Farewell, my Portius.

Farewell, though death is in the word, forever

Stay, Lucia, stay.

What dost thou say? Forever? Thou must not go.

My soul still hovers o'er thee and can't get loose

If the firm Portius shake to hear of parting, think what Lucia suffers

'Tis true.

Unruffled and serene, I have met the common accidents of life.

But here, such an unlooked-for storm of ills falls on me.

It beats down all my strength.

I cannot bear it.

We must not part

What dost thou say? Not part? Hast thou forgot the vow that I have made? Are not there heavens and gods that thunder over us? But see, thy brother Marcus bends this way.

I sicken at the sight.

Once more, farewell.

Farewell, and know thou wrong'st me if thou think'st ever was love or ever grief like mine

mineExit Lucia.

Enter Marcus

Portius, what hopes? How stands she? Am I doom'd to life or death?

What wouldst thou have me say?

What means this pensive posture? Thou appearest like one amazed and terrified.

I've a reason.

Thy downcast looks and thy disordered thoughts.

Tell me my fate.

I ask not the success my cause has found.

I'm grieved I undertook it.

What, does the barbarous maid insult my heart, my aching heart, and triumph in my pains? That I could cast her from my thoughts forever.

Away! You're too suspicious in your griefs.

Lucia, though sworn never to think of love, compassionates your pains and pities you.

Compassionates my pains and pities me? What is compassion when 'tis void of love? Fool that I was to choose so cold a friend to urge my cause.

Compassionates my pains? Prithee, what art, what rhetoric didst thou use to gain this mighty boon? She pities me.

To one that asks the warm returns of love, compassion's cruelty.

'Tis scorn.

'Tis death.

Marcus, no more.

Have I deserved this treatment?

What have I said? O Portius, O forgive me.

The soul exasperated in ills falls out with everything, its friend itself.

Shout.

Ha! What means that shout, big with the sounds of war? What new alarm?

A second, louder yet, swells in the wind and comes more full upon us.

O, for some glorious cause to fall in battle.

Lucia, thou hast undone me.

Thy disdain has broke my heart.

'Tis death must give me ease.

Quick, let us hence.

Who knows if Cato's life stands sure? O Marcus, I am warmed.

My heart leaps at the trumpet's voice and burns for glory.

Exeunt.

Scene 2.

Part of the Senate-House.

Enter Sempronius, with Leaders of the Mutiny

At length the winds are raised, the storms blow high.

Bid your care, my friends, to keep it up in all its fury, and direct it right, that it spend itself on Cato's head.

Meanwhile I'll herd among his friends, and seem one of their number, that, whate'er arrive, my friends and fellow soldiers may be safe.

Exit

We are all safe.

Sempronius is our friend.

Sempronius is as brave a man as Cato.

But, hark, he enters.

Bear up boldly to him.

Be sure you beat him down, and bind him fast.

This day will end our toils.

Fear nothing, for Sempronius is our friend.

Enter Sempronius with Cato, Lucius, Portius, and Marcus

Where are those bold and intrepid sons of war that greatly turned their backs upon the foe and to their general send a brave defiance?

Sempronius, aside.

Curse on their dastard souls! They stand astonished.

Perfidious men! And will you thus dishonor your past exploits, and sully all your wars? Why could not Cato fall without your guilt? Behold, ungrateful men, behold my bosom naked to your swords, and let the man that's injured strike the blow, which of you all suspects that he is wronged, or thinks he suffers greater ills than Cato.

Am I distinguished from you but by toils, superior toils, and heavier weight of cares? Painful preeminence.

Sempronius, aside.

Confusion to the villains! All is lost.

Have you forgotten Libya's burning waste, its barren rocks, parched earth, and hills of sand? Its tainted air, and all its broods of poison? Who was the first to explore the untrodden path, when life was hazarded in every step? Or fainting in the long laborious march, when on the banks of an unlooked-for stream you sunk the river with repeated draughts, who was the last of all your host who thirsted?

Did not his temples glow in the same sultry winds and scorching heats?

Hence, worthless men, hence, and complain to Caesar you could not undergo the toil of war, nor bear the hardships that your leader bore.

See, Cato, see the unhappy men! They weep.

Fear and remorse and sorrow for their crime appear in every look and plead for mercy.

Learn to be honest men.

Give up yon leaders, and pardon shall descend on all the rest.

Cato, commit these wretches to my care.

First let them each be broken on the rack; then, with what life remains, impaled, and left to writhe at leisure round the bloody stake.

There let them hang, and taint the southern wind.

The partners of their crime will learn obedience.

Forbear Sempronius, see they suffer death, but in their deaths remember they are men.

Strain not the laws to make their tortures grievous.

Lucius, the base degenerate age requires severity.

When by just vengeance guilty mortals perish, the gods behold the punishment with pleasure and lay the uplifted thunderbolt aside

Cato, I execute thy will with pleasure

Meanwhile, we'll sacrifice to liberty.

Remember, oh, my friends, the laws, the rights, the generous plan of power delivered down from age to age by your renowned forefathers, so dearly bought, the price of so much blood.

Oh, let it never perish in your hands, but piously transmit it to your children.

Do thou, great Liberty, inspire our souls and make our lives in thy possession happy or our deaths glorious in thy just defense

Exeunt Cato, et cetera

Sempronius, you have acted like yourself.

One would have thought you had been half in earnest

Villains, stand off, base, groveling, worthless wretches, mongrel infection, poor faint-hearted traitors

Nay now, you carry it too far, Sempronius

No, villains.

When such paltry slaves presume to mix in treason, if the plot succeeds, they're thrown neglected by, but if it fails, they're sure to die like dogs, as you shall do.

Here, take these factitious monsters.

Drag them forth to sudden death

Nay, since it comes to this-

Dispatch them quick, but first pluck out their tongues, lest with their dying breath they sow sedition

Exeunt guards with their leaders.

Enter Syphax

Our first design, my friend, has proved abortive.

Still, there remains an aftergame to play.

My troops are mounted.

Let but Sempronius head us in our flight.

We'll force the gate where Marcus keeps his guard and hew down all that would oppose our passage.

A day will bring us into Caesar's camp

Confusion, I failed of half my purpose.

Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind

How? Will Sempronius turn a woman's slave?

Think not thy friend can ever feel the soft, unmanly warmth and tenderness of love.

Syphax, I long to clasp that haughty maid and bend her stubborn virtue to my passion.

When I have gone thus far, I'd cast her off

Well said.

That's spoken like thyself, Sempronius.

What hinders then but that thou find her out and hurry her away by manly force?

But how to gain admission? Thraxas is given to none but Juba and her brothers

Thou shalt have Juba's dress and Juba's guards.

The doors will open when Numidia's prince seems to appear before the slaves that watch them

Heavens, what a thought.

Marcia's my own.

How will my bosom swell with anxious joy when I behold her struggling in my arms with glowing beauty and disordered charms, while fear and anger with alternate grace pant in her breast and vary in her face, till Pluto seized off Proserpina, conveyed to hell's tremendous gloom the frightened maid, there grimly smiled, pleased with the beauteous prize, nor envied Jove his sunshine and his skies

Exeunt.

End of Act III.

Act the Fourth.

Scene one, a chamber.

Enter Lucia and Marcia

Now tell me, Marcia, tell me from thy soul if thou believest 'tis possible for woman to suffer greater ills than Lucia suffers

Oh, Lucia, Lucia, might my big swollen heart vent all its griefs and give loose to sorrow.

Marcia could answer thee in sighs, keep pace with all thy woes, and count out tear for tear

I know thou art doomed alike to be beloved by Juba and thy father's friend, Sempronius.

But which of these has power to charm like Portius?

Still, I must beg thee not to name Sempronius.

Lucia, I like not that loud, boisterous man.

Juba, to all the bravery of a hero, adds softest love, and more than female sweetness.

Juba might make the proudest of our sex, any of womankind but Marcia happy

And why not Marcia? Come, you strive in vain to hide your thoughts from one who knows too well the inward glowings of a heart in love

While Cato lives, his daughter has no right to love or hate but as his choice directs

But should this father give you to Sempronius

I dare not think he will, but if he should, why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer imaginary ills and fancied tortures? I hear the sound of feet.

They march this way.

Let us retire and try if we can drown each softer thought in sense of present danger.

When love once pleads admission to our hearts, in spite of all the virtues we can boast, the woman that deliberates is lost

Exeunt.

Enter Sempronius, dressed like Juba, with Numidian guards

The deer is lodged.

I've tracked her to her covert.

How will the young Numidian rave to see his mistress lost? If aught could glad my soul beyond the enjoyment of so bright a prize, 'twould be to torture that young, gay barbarian.

But hark, what noise? Death to my hopes.

'Tis he.

'Tis Juba's self.

There is but one way left

Enter Juba

What do I see? Who's this that dares usurp the guards and habits of Numidia's prince

One that was born to scourge thy arrogant, presumptuous youth

What can this mean?

mean?Sempronius

My sword shall answer thee.

Have at thy heart

Nay then, beware thy own proud barbarous man

Sempronius falls

Curse my stars! Am I doomed to fall by a boy's hand disfigured in a vile Numidian dress and for a worthless woman? Gods, I'm distracted.

This is the close of life.

Oh, for a peal of thunder that would make earth, sea, and air and heaven and Cato tremble

Dies

I'll hence to Cato, that we may there at length unravel all this dark design, this mystery of fate

Exit Juba.

Enter Lucia and Marcia

Sure it was the clash of swords.