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Lady R. [Toying with him.] Don't you say any more about it; you had better give it up, you had indeed.

Enter FOOTMAN.

Foot. Your honour's cap and slippers.

Sir C. Lay down my cap, and here take these shoes off. [He takes them off, and leaves them at a distance.] Indeed, my Lady Rackett, you make me ready to expire with laughing. Ha, ha! Lady R. You may laugh, but I am right notwithstanding.

Sir C. How can you say so?

Lady R. How can you say otherwise?

Sir C. Well, now mind me, Lady Rackett, we can now talk of this in good humour; we can discuss it coolly.

Lady R. So we can, and it is for that reason I venture to speak to you. Are these the ruffles I bought for you?

Sir C. They are, my dear.

Lady R. They are very pretty. But, indeed, you played the card wrong.

Sir C. No, no, listen to me; the affair was thus: Mr. Jenkins having never a club leftLady R. Mr. Jenkins finessed the club. Sir C. [Peevishly.] How can you? Lady R. And trumps being all outSir C. And we playing for the odd trickLady R. If you had minded your gameSir C. And the club being the bestLady R. If you had led your diamondSir C. Mr. Jenkins would, of course, put on a spade.

Lady R. And so the odd trick was sure. Sir C. Damnation! will you let me speak Lady R. Very well, Sir, fly out again. Sir C. Look here now; here is a pack of cards. -Now you shall be convinced.

Lady R. You may talk till to-morrow, I know I am right. [Walks about. Sir C. Why then, by all that's perverse, you are the most headstrong-Can't you look here? here are the very cards.

Lady R. Go on; you'll find it out at last.

Sir C. Will you hold your tongue, or not? will you let me show you?-Po! it is all nonsense. [Puts up the cards.] Come, let us go to bed. [Going.] Only stay one moment. [Takes out the cards. Now command yourself, and you shall have demonstration.

Lady R. It does not signify, Sir. Your head will be clearer in the morning. I choose to go to ped.

Sir C. Stay and hear me, can't you ? Lady R. No; my head aches. I am tired of the subject.

Sir C. Why then damn the cards. There, and there, and there. [Throwing them about the room] You may go to bed by yourself. Confusion seize me if I stay here to be tormented a moment longer. [Putting on his shoes. Lady R. Take your own way, Sir.

Sir C. Now then, I tell you once more, you are a vile woman.

Lady R. Don't make me laugh again, Sir Charles. [Walks and singa Sir C. Hell and the devil! Will you sit down quietly and let me convince you?

Lady R. I don't choose to hear any more about it.

Sir C. Why then may I perish if everblockhead, an idiot, I was to marry. [Walke about.] Such provoking impertinence! [She sits down. Damnation! I am so clear in the thing. She is not worth my notice. [Sits down, turns his back, and looks uneasy.] I'll take no more pains about it. [Pauses for some time, then looks at her.] Is it not strange, that you wont hear me? Lady R. Sir, I am very ready to hear you. Sir C. Very well then, very well; you remem ber how the game stood.

[Draws his chair near her. Lady R. I wish you would untie my necklace, it hurts me.

Sir C. Why can't you listen?

Lady R. I tell you it hurts me terribly.

Sir C. Death and confusion! [Moves his chair away.]—There is no bearing this. [Looks at her angrily.] It wont take a moment, if you will but listen. [Mores towards her.] Can't you see, that, by forcing the adversary's hand, Mr. Jenkins would be obliged to

Lady R. [Moving her chair away fram him.] Mr. Jenkins had the best club, and never a diamond left.

Sir C. [Rising.] Distraction! Bedlam is not so mad. Be as wrong as you please, Madam. May I never hold four by honours, may I lose every thing I play for, may fortune eternally forif I endeavour to set you right again. [Eril

sake

me,

Enter MR. and MRS. DRUGGET, WOODLEY, and NANCY.

Mrs. D. Gracious! what's the matter now?

Lady R. Such another man does not exist. I did not say a word to the gentleman, and yet he has been raving about the room, and sternung like a whirlwind.

૧

Drug. And about a club again! I heard it all.-Come hither, Nancy; Mr. Woodley, she is yours for life.

Mrs. D. My dear, how can you be so pas sionate?

Drug. It shall be so. Take her for life, Mr. Woodley.

Wood. My whole life shall be devoted to her happiness.

Drug. Mr. Woodley, I recommend my girl to your care. I shall have nothing now to think of, but my greens, and my images, and my shrubbery. Though, mercy on all married folks, say I; for these wranglings are, I am afraid, what they must all come to. [Exeunt.

САТО:

A TRAGEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

BY JOSEPH ADDISON.

REMARKS.

Envy itself is dumb, in wonder lost,

And factions strive who shall applaud hi most.

POPE, writing to Sir W. Trumbull, has well applied these words of our author, (on some other occasion,) to this tragedy, in allusion to the endeavours of both whigs and tories of that period, to make it a party-play. So many presents were made by both parties to Mr. Booth, (who played Cato,) that Dr. Garth is recorded to have said, ""Tis probable that Cato may have something to live on after he dies."—It is certain, however, that this excellent dramatic poem derived, from empassioned politics, much of the enthusiastic admiration which graced its earlier performance. The deficiency of dramatic business is scarcely balanced by the poetical beauties of the diction and the noble sentiments of liberty that adorn it throughout. The characters, though strongly depicted, fail to excite either solicitude or affection; "But, (as the great moralist observes,) they are made the vehicles of such sentiments and such expression, that there is scarcely a scene in the play which the reader does not wish to impress on his memory."—Johnson.

In our own day, the virtuous and dignified Roman has been so transcendantly pourtrayed by Mr. Kemble, that Cato and his little senate have never failed to interest the public and reward the managers.

ness!

[him; His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause

Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.

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 Heaven, such virtues, join'd with such success,
Distract my very soul! our father's fortune
Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.

Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause, | Break out, and burn with more triumphant bright
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd, in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys;
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling in a falling state!
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
E'en when proud Cæsar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state.
As her dead father's rev'rend image past,
The pomp was darken'd and the day o'ercast,
The triumph ceas'd-tears gush'd from every eye,
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by:
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæsar's, less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend; be worth like this approv'd,
And show you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd.
Our scenes precariously subsist too long
On French translation and Italian song:
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage;
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

ACT I.

SCENE I-A Hall.

Enter PORTIUS and MARCUS.

Por. The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
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 havoc does ambition make
Among your works!

Mare. Thy steady temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy;
I'm tortur'd e'en to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he 's nam'd
Pharsalia rises to my view-I see

Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field
Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in
slaughter;

His horses' hoofs wet with patrician blood!
Oh, Portius! is not there 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?
Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious great-

Por. Remember what our father oft has told us:
The ways of Heaven 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
Passion unpitied, and successless love, [coldly.
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 proef,
Put forth thy utmost strength, work every 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. Alas, the counsel which I cannot take,
Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost
In high ambition and a thirst of greatness;
'Tis second life, that 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 smother'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 show the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman soul?

Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave
stings behind them.

Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius show
A virtue that had cast me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?
Por. 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.

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: tie must not find this softness hanging on me.

Enter SEMPRONIUS.

[Exit.

Sem. Conspiracies no sooner should be form'd
Than executed. What means Portius here?
I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble,
And speak a language foreign to my heart. [Aside.
Good morrow, Portius; let us once embrace,
Once more embrace, while yet we both are free.
To-morrow, should we thus express our friend-
ship,

Each might receive a slave into his arms.
This sun, perhaps, this morning sun's the last,
That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty.

Por. My father has this morning call'd 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 Cæsar.

Sem. Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome Can raise her senate more than Cato's presence. His virtues render our assembly awful, They strike with something like religious fear, And make even Cæsar tremble, at the head Of armies flush'd 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 bless'd indeed! Por. Alas, Sempronius! wouldst thou talk of

love

To Marcia, whilst her father's life 's in danger? Thou might'st as well court the pale, trembling vestal,

When she beholds the holy flame expiring.

Sem. The more I see the wonders of thy race, The more I'm charm'd. 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.
Por. Well dost thou seem to check my ling ring

here

On this important hour.-I'll straight away,
And while the fathers of the senate meet
In close debate, to weigh th' 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.
Sem. Curse on the stripling! how he apes his

sire!

Ambitiously sententious.-But I wonder
Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian genius
Is well dispos'd to mischief, were he prompt
And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd,
And every moment quicken'd to the course.
Cato has us'd me ill; he has refus'd
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.
Besides, his baffled arms and ruin'd cause
Are bars to my ambition. Cæsar's favour,
That showers down greatness on his friends, will

Enter SYPHAX.

299

Syph. 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 prínciples
Of faith and honour, and I know not what,
And struck th' infection into all his soul.
That have corrupted his Numidian temper,

Sem. Be sure to press upon him every motive.
Juba's surrender, since his father's death,
Would give up Afric 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, [earnest,
A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in
Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury!

Syph. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct gray 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, 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; Oh, think what anxious moments pass between The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods! Oh, 'tis 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.

Syph. 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!

Enter JUBA

Juba. 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, What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns,

Against the lords and sov'reigns of the world?
Dost thou not see mankind fall down before them,
And own the force of their superior virtue ?
Syph. 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 jav'lin 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 th' embattled elephant,
Laden 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,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.
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:
And when his fortune sets before him all
The pomps and pleasures that his soul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.
[can
Syph. Believe me, prince, there's not an Afri-
That traverses our vast Numidian deserts
In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises those boasted virtues.
Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase;
Amidst the running streams he slakes his thirst;
Toils 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.

Juba. Thy prejudices, Syphax, wont 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!

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 armies now have lain
On Afric'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 wouldst thou have me do?
Syph. Abandon Cato.

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. 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. Syph. Sir, your great father never us'd 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 brim full of fears,) then, sighing, cried, Pr'ythee, be careful of my son!—His grief Swell'd up so high, he could not utter more

Juba. Alas! thy story melts away my soul! That best of fathers! how shall I discharge The gratitude and duty that I owe him?

rection.

Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart.
Juba. His counsels bade me yield to thy di
[safety.
Syph. Alas! my prince, I'd guide you to your
Juba. I do believe thou wouldst: but tell me
how.
[foes.

Syph. Fly from the fate that follows Caesar's
Juba. My father scorn'd to do it.
Syph. And therefore died.

Juba. Better to die ten thousand thousand Than wound my honour.

[deaths, [temper

Syph. Rather say, your love.
Juba. Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my
Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame
I long have stifled, and would fain conceal?
Syph. Believe me, prince, though hard to con-
quer 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 forge
The pale, unripen'd beauties of the north.

Juba. '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 his 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 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 virtue.

Syph. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise!

But, on my knees, I beg you would considerJuba. Ha! Syphax, is't not she ?-She moves this way,

And with her Lucia, Lucius' fair daughter. My heart beats thick-I pr'ythee, Syphax, leave [both!

me.

Syph. Ten thousand curses fasten on them Now will the woman, with a single glance, Undo what I've been lab'ring all this while.

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