1 In the same intricate, perplex'd distress. Mar. Let him but live, commit the rest to Heav'n. . Enter LUCIUS. Lucius. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man! thought. "Lucius. Lucia, why all this grief, these floods of sorrow? "Dry up thy tears, my child, we all are safe Enter JUBA Jub. Lucius, the horsemen are return'd from view. ing The number, strength, and posture of our foes, Who now encamp within a short hour's march; Plays on their shining arms and burnish'd helmets, Lucius. Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father. Cæsar is still dispos'd to give us terms, And waits at distance 'till he hears from Cato. Enter PORTIUS. Portius, thy looks speak somewhat of importance. Por. As I was hasting to the port, where now From Pompey's son, who through the realms of Spain Calls out for vengeance on his father's death, And rouses the whole nation up to arms. Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome But, hark! what means that groan! Oh, give me way, [Exit. Lucius. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome, And in the wild disorder of his soul Mourns o'er his country. Hah! a second groanHeav'n guard us all! Mar. Alas! 'tis not the voice Of one who sleeps; 'tis agonizing pain, 'Tis death is in that sound.— Re-enter PORTIUS. Por. Oh, sight of woe! Oh, Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass! Lucius. Oh, Portius, Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale, Por. I've rais'd him up, And plac'd him in his chair, where, pale and faint, He gasps for breath, and as his life flows from him, Demands to see his friends. His servants weeping, Obsequious to his order, bear him hither. Mar. Oh, Heav'n! assist me in this dreadful hour, To pay the last sad duties to my father. "Jub. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Cæsar! "Lucius. Now is Rome fall'n indeed!" [Cato brought on in a chair. Calo. Here set me down Portius, come near me- —Are my friends embark'd ? -Oh, Lucius, art thou here?—Thou art too good- But Cæsar's arms have thrown down all distinction; -I'm sick to death-Oh, when shall I get loose I've been too hasty. Oh, ye Powers, that search The best may err, but you are good, and-Oh! [Dies. Lucius. There fled the greatest soul that ever warm'd A Roman breast; oh, Cato! oh, my friend! Thy will shall be religiously observ'd. But let us bear this awful corpse to Cæsar, And lay it in his sight, that it may stand 'Tis this that shakes our country with alarms, [Exeunt omnes. EPILOGUE. WRITTEN BY DR. GARTH. WHAT odd fantastic things we women do? To give you pain, themselves they punish most. We give to merit, and to wealth we sell: Blame not our conduct, since we but pursue |