Do they with tougher Sinews bend the Bow?
Orflies the Javelin fwifter to its Mark,
Launch'd from the Vigour of a Roman Arm ?
Who like our active African inftructs

The fiery Steed, and trains him to his Hand?
Or guide's in Troops th' embattled Elephant,
Loaden with War? Thefe, these are Arts, my Prince,
In which your Zama does not ftoop to Rome.
Jub. These all are Virtues of a meaner Rank,
Perfections that are placed in Bones and Nerves.
A Roman Soul is bent on higher Views:
To civilize the rude unpolish'd World,
And lay it under the Restraint of Laws;
To make Man mild and fociable to Man;
To cultivate the wild licentious Savage
With Wisdom, Discipline, and lib'ral Arts;
Th' Embellishments of Life: Virtues like these
Make Human Nature fhine, reform the Soul,

And break our fierce Barbarians into Men.

Syph. Patience kind Heav'ns!-Excufe an old Man's warmth. What are these wond'rous civilizing Arts,

This Roman Polish, and this smooth Behaviour,
That render Man thus tractable and tame?
Are they not only to disguise our Paffions,
To fet our Looks at variance with our Thoughts,
To check the Starts and Sallies of the Soul,
And break off all its Commerce with the Tongue;
In fhort, to change us into other Creatures
Than what our Nature and the Gods defign'd us?
Jub. To ftrike thee Dumb: Turn up thy Eyes to Cato!
There may'ft thou fee to what a Godlike Height
The Roman Virtues lift up mortal Man.

While good, and juft, and anxious for his Friends,
He's ftill feverely bent against himself;

Renouncing Sleep, and Reft, and Food, and Eafe,
He strives with Thirft and Hunger, Toil and Heat ;
And when his Fortune fets before him all

The Pomps and Pleafures that his Soul can wifh,
His rigid Virtue will accept of none.

Syph. Believe me, Prince, there's not an African
That traverfes our vaft Numidian Defarts
In queft of Prey, and lives upon his Bow,
But better practises these boafted Virtues.
Coarfe are his Meals, the Fortune of the Chafe,
Amidft the running Stream he flakes his Thirft,
Toil's all the Day, and at th' approach of Night
On the first friendly Bank he throws him down,
Or refts his Head upon a Rock 'till Morn:
Then rifes frefh, purfues his wonted Game,
And if the following Day he chance to find
A new Repaft, or an untafted Spring,
Bleffes his Stars, and thinks it Luxury.

Fub. Thy Prejudices, Syphax, won't difcern
What Virtues grow from Ignorance and Choice,
Nor how the Hero differs from the Brute.
But grant that others cou'd with equal Glory
Look down on Pleasures and the Baits of Sense;
Where fhall we find the Man that bears Affliction,
Great and Majestick in his Griefs, like Cato?
Heav'ns, with what Strength, what Steadiness of Mind,
He Triumphs in the midft of all his Sufferings!
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 Stoicifm.

Had not your Royal Father thought fo highly
Of Roman Virtue, and of Cato's Caufe,

He had not fall'n by a Slave's Hand inglorious:
Nor would his flaughter'd Army now have lain
On Africk's Sands, disfigur'd with their Wounds,
To
gorge the Wolves and Vultures of Numidia.
Jub. Why do'st thou call my Sorrows
My Father's Name brings Tears into my Eyes.
Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your Father's ills!

up

afresh?

"

Jub.

Jub. What wou'dft thou have me do?
Syph. Abandon Cato.

Fub. Syphax, Ifhou'd be more than twice an Orphan
By fuch a Lofs.

Syph. Ay, there's the Tie that binds you! You long to call him Father. Marcia's Charms Work in your Heart unfeen, and plead for Cato. No wonder you are deaf to all I fay.

Fub. Syphax, your Zeal becomes importunate;
I've hitherto permitted it to rave,

And talk at large; but learn to keep it in,
Least it should take more Freedom than I'll give it.
Syph. Sir, your great Father nevér used me thus
Alas, he's Dead! But can you e'er forget
The tender Sorrows, and the Pangs of Nature,
The fond Embraces, and repeated Bleffings,
Which you drew from him in your last Farewel?
Still muft I cherish the dear fad Remembrance,
At once to torture and to please my Soul.
The good old King, at parting, wrung my Hand,
(His Eyes brim-full of Tears) then fighing cry'd,
Prithee be careful of my Son!-his Grief
Swell'd up fo high he cou'd not utter more.

Jub. Alas, thy Story melts away my Soul.
That beft of Fathers! how fhall I discharge
The Gratitude and Duty, which I owe him!
Syph. By laying up his Councils in
your Heart.
Jub. His Councils bade me yield to thy Directions:
Then, Syphax, chide me in fevereft Terms,
Vent all thy Paffion, and I'll ftand its shock,

Calm and unruffled as a Summer-Sea,

When not a Breath of Wind flie's o'er its Surface.
Syph. Alas, my Prince, i'd guide you to your Safety.
Jub I do believe thou wou'dft; but tell me how?
Syph. Fly from the Fate that follows Cafar's Foes.
Jub. My Father scorn'd to do't.

Syph. And therefore dy’d.

Fub. Better to die ten thousand thousand Deaths, Than wound my Honour.

Syph. Rather fay your Love.

Fub. Syphax, I've promis'd to preferve my Temper. Why wilt thou urge me to confefs a Flame,

I long have ftifled, and wou'd fain conceal?

Syph. Believe me, Prince, 'tis hard to conquer Love,
But eafie to divert and break its Force:

Abfence might cure it, or a fecond Mistress
Light up another Flame, and put out this.
The glowing Dames of Zama's Royal Court
Have Faces flusht with more exalted Charms.
The Sun, that rolls his Chariot o'er their Heads,
Works up more Fire and Colour in their Cheeks:
Were you with thefe, my Prince, you'd foon forget
The pale unripen'd Beauties of the North.

Jub. 'Tis not a Sett of Features, or Complexion,
The Tincture of a Skin, that I admire.
Beauty foon grows familiar to the Lover,
Fades in his Eye, and palls upon the Senfe..
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her Sex:
True, fhe is fair, (Oh, how divinely fair!)
But ftill the lovely Maid improves her Charms
With inward Greatnefs, unaffected Wisdom,
And Sanctity of Manners. Cato's Soul
Shines out in every thing the acts or speaks,
While winning Mildnefs and attractive Smiles

Dwell in her Looks, and with becoming Grace

Soften the Rigour of her Father's Virtues.

Syph. How does your Tongue grow wanton in her Praife! But on my Knees I beg you wou'd confider

Enter Marcia and Lucia.

Fub. Hah! Syphax, is't not fhe! She moves this Way: And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair Daughter,

My Heart beats thick- I prithee Syphax leave me.

Syph.

Syph. Ten thousand Curfes fasten on 'em both! Now will this Woman with a single Glance Undo, what I've been lab'ring all this while.

Juba, Marcia, Lucia.

[Exit.

Jub. Hail charming Maid, how does thy Beauty fmoothThe Face of War, and make ev'n Horror fmile!

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 th' Approach of Cafar.

Mar. I fhou'd be griev'd, young Prince, to think my Prefence

Unbent your Thoughts, and flacken'd 'em to Arms,

While, warm with Slaughter, our victorious Foe,

Threatens aloud, and calls you to the Field.

Fub. O Marcia, let me hope thy kind Concerns
And gentle Wishes follow me to Battel!
The Thought will give new Vigour to my Arm,
Add Strength and Weight to my defcending Sword,
And drive it in a Tempeft on the Foe.

Marc. My Prayers and Wishes always fhall attend
The Friends of Rome, the glorious Caufe of Virtue,
And Men approv'd of by the Gods and Cato.

Jub. That Juba may deferve thy pious Cares,
I'll gaze for ever on thy Godlike Father,
Tranfplanting, one by one, into my Life
His bright Perfections, 'till I fhine like him.
Marc. My Father never at a Time like this
Wou'd lay out his great Soul in Words, and wafte:
Such precious Moments.

Jub. Thy Reproofs are juft,

Thou virtuous Maid, I'll haften to my Troops,,
And fire their languid Souls with Cato's Virtue;
If e're I lead them to the Field, when all
The War fhall ftand ranged in its juft Array,
And dreadful Pomp: Then will I think on thee!?
O lovely Maid, Then will I think on Thee!

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