DRURY- LANE.

Men, Cato, - - - - - - Mr. Kemble. LUCIUS,

S Mr. Packer. SEMPRONIUS, senator s, Senators.

Mr. Barrymore. JUBA, Prince of Numidia,

Mr. Bannister, Jun. Syphax, General of the Numidians, Mr. Aickin. PORTIUS,

S Mr. Palmer.
US: Sons of Cato. -

Brere
Decius, Ambassador from Cæsar, - Mr. Chaplin.
Mutineers, Guards, &c.

Women. MARCIA, Daughter to Cato, . . Mrs. Ward. LUCIA, Daughter to Lucius, - - Miss E. Kemble.

MARCUS,

10

COVENT-GARDEN.

Men. CATO, • - - - - Mr. Sheridan. Lucius, } Senators.

Mr. L'Estrange. SEMPRONIUS, venators.

- Mr. Clarke. JUBA, Prince of Numidia, - - Mr. Wroughton. Syphax, Gencral of the Numidians, - Mr. Hull. PORTIUS, usz

S Mr. Aickin.
Sons of Cato, -
MARCUS,

Mr. Lewis.
Decius, Ambassador from Cæsar, Mr, Fearon,
Mutineers, Guards, &c.

Women. Marcia, Daughter to Cato, - - Mrs. Hartley. LUCIA, Daughter to Lucius, - - Mrs. Jackson.

SCENE, A Hall in the Governor's Palace in Utica.

Ga

CATO.

ACT 1. SCENE I.

Enter Portius and MARCUS,

Portius. 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 ravag'd 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 havock does ambition make Among your works!

Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar, In the calm lights of mild philosophy; I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madness, when I think

On the proud victor: ev'ry time he's nam'd
Pharsalia rises to my view l-I see.
Th' insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field,
Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaugh-

ter,
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 mix'd with too much horror 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, degen’rate world, That courts 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 battles fought in vain. By Heav'n, such virtues, join'd with such success,

Distracts my very soul! our father's fortune
Would almost teinpt 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 perplex'd with errors,
Our understanding traces them 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.

Marc. These are suggestions of a mind at ease : Oh, 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

Por. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy rival; But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Aside. 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.

Marc. Portius, the counsel 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 or a thirst of greatness;
'Tis second life, it grows into the soul,
Warms every vein, and beats in every 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 smoother'd fondness burns within him;
“ When most it swells, and labours for a vent,"
The 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 shew the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman soul!
Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave stings

behind 'em.
Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, shew
A virtue that has cast me at a distance.
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?

Por. Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper well;
Fling but th' appearance of dishonour on it,
It straight 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