Cato, a Tragedy
Joseph Addison
First published in 1713. This edition was first published in 1823.
This online edition was created and published by Global Grey on the 14th April 2022.
Table of Contents
Remarks
BY MRS. INCHBALD
The author of this tragedy, to whose vigorous mind the English are indebted for their choicest moral works, came into the world with a frame so weak, that he was christened immediately on his birth, in consequence of the symptoms he gave of a speedy dissolution. The hand which reared him did a more than ordinary service to the age in which he lived, and to succeeding generations. Addison’s pious writings, untainted by the rigour of superstition, have softened the harsh spirit of ancient religion, whilst they have confirmed all its principles.
He was the son of the Reverend Launcelot Addison, Rector of Milston, in the county of Wilts, at which place he was born, on the 6th of May, 1672.
After passing through some inferior schools, he was placed at the Charter-House; where he contracted that intimacy with Steele, which grew to a friendship honourable to them both, from its duration, and the instructions which their joint labour bestowed on mankind.
At the age of fifteen, young Addison was entered at Queen’s College, Oxford, where he applied himself so closely to study, that, in a few years, his Latin poetry gained him high reputation in both universities, and, at the age of twenty-two, he became known to the nation at large by his English compositions.
He was now pressed by his father to take holy orders; which, notwithstanding his sedate turn of mind, and his habits of piety, he positively refused. Mr. Tickell has alleged, that it was Addison’s extreme modesty, a constitutional timidity, which made him resolve against being in the church—but he became a statesman; and, surely, that is a character which requires as much courage as a clergyman’s, when the church is not under persecution.
The first dramatic work from the pen of Addison, was an opera called “Rosamond,” which having but indifferent success, he next assisted Steele in his play of “The Tender Husband;” for which the author surprised him by a dedication, openly to avow the obligation.
These two friends now united their efforts in that well-known periodical work, “The Spectator;” by which they reformed the manners, as well as the morals, of their readers, and established their own literary fame. But, as the talents of Addison were superior to those of Steele, so are the papers in this work which were written by him esteemed above the rest;—and, as a mark of distinction, he had the laudable, or his friend Steele the honest pride, to affix a letter at the end of every such paper, by which it should be known for his. The Muse Clio furnished the four letters which have been thus used in “The Spectator,” as Addison’s honourable stamp of authorship.
In the periodical work of “The Guardian” he had likewise some share; and, in 1713, he produced, what Dr. Johnson has called “the noblest work of Addison’s genius”—”Cato.”
Notwithstanding the merit of this play, it is certain that it was indebted to the political circumstances of the times, for that enthusiastic applause with which it was received by the town.
The joy or sorrow which an author is certain to experience upon every new production, is far more powerful in the heart of a dramatist than in that of any other writer. The sound of clamorous plaudits raises his spirits to a kind of ecstacy; whilst hisses and groans, from a dissatisfied audience, strike on the ear like a personal insult, avowing loud and public contempt for that in which he has been labouring to show his skill.
Addison, with his timid nature, felt all the excruciating tortures of an ambitious, yet a fearful dramatist. He could not stay at home on the first night of “Cato;” for to be told, at once, that his tragedy was driven from the stage with derision, had been to his tremulous nerves like the dart of death. Not less peril might have befallen him as an auditor—he therefore was neither present on the first performance, nor absent from the theatre;—but, placing himself on a bench in the green-room, his body motionless, his soul in tumult, he kept by his side a friend, whom he dispatched every minute towards the stage, to bring him news of what was passing there. He thus secured, he conceived, progressive information of his fate, without the risk of hearing it from an enraged multitude. But such was the vehemence of applause, that shouts of admiration forced their way through the walls of the green-room, before his messenger could return with the gladsome tidings. Yet, not till the last sentence was spoken, and the curtain fairly dropped upon Cato and his weeping friends, did the author venture to move from the inanimate position in which he was fixed. This acute dread of failure now heightened the joy of success, and never was success more complete.
“Cato,” says Pope, in a letter to one of his friends, written at the time, “was not so much the wonder of Rome in his days, as he is of Britain in ours.”
The most fortunate of all occurrences took place, from the skill with which Addison drew this illustrious Roman—he gave him so much virtue, that both Whigs and Tories declared him of their party; and instead of any one, on either side, opposing his sentences in the cause of freedom, all strove which should the most honour him.
Both auditors and readers, since that noted period, much as they may praise this tragedy, complain that it wants the very first requisite of a dramatic work—power to affect the passions. This criticism shows, to the full extent, how men were impassioned, at that time, by their political sentiments. They brought their passions with them to the playhouse, fired on the subject of the play; and all the poet had to do was to extend the flame.
It is a charge against this drama, that the love scenes are all insipid; but it should be considered, that neither Cato nor his family, with strict propriety, could love any thing but their country.—As this is a love which women feel in a much less degree than men, and as bondage, not liberty, is woman’s wish, “Cato,” with all his patriotism, must ever be a dull entertainment to the female sex; and men of course receive but little pleasure from elegant amusements, of which women do not partake.
The language and sentiments contained here are worthy of the great Addison and the great Cato; and if, as it is objected, the characters are too elevated to be natural, yet they accord with that idea of nature which imagination conceives of such remarkable personages.
The author of “Cato” had planned other tragedies and celebrated works, which the subsequent part of his days did not give him leisure to execute; for, on the death of Queen Anne, the Lords Justices made him their Secretary: he was soon after appointed principal Secretary of State. These, and other public employments, prevented his completing farther literary designs. Or, it may be thought, that the loss of his domestic tranquillity, at this time, by his marriage with the Countess Dowager of Warwick, might possibly impede every future attempt for the favour of the Muses, to whom this, his wife, had not the slightest affinity. It is supposed she embittered, by arrogance and discontent, the remainder of this good man’s life, which terminated on the 17th of June, 1719, in the 47th year of his age. He died at Holland House, near Kensington, and left an only child, a daughter, by the Countess.
Lady Warwick had also a son by her former husband, a very fine, spirited, and accomplished youth, for whose welfare the dying Addison showed peculiar concern; for, in the extremity of his disorder, having dismissed his physicians, and with them all hopes of recovery, he desired that the young Lord Warwick might be called to his bedside. He came—but life was now fast departing from his revered father-in-law, and he uttered not a word. After an afflicting pause, the young man said, “Dear sir, you sent for me; I believe, and I hope, that you have some commands; I shall hold them most sacred.” Grasping his hand, Addison softly replied, “I sent for you, that you might see in what peace a Christian can die.” He spoke with difficulty, and instantly expired.
It is to this circumstance Mr. Tickell refers in his lines on Addison’s death, where he has this passage:
“He taught us how to live; and, oh! too high
A price for knowledge, taught us how to die.”
Dramatis Personæ
Cato, Mr. Cooke.
Portius, Mr. Siddons.
Marcus, Mr. H. Johnston.
Sempronius, Mr. Cory.
Juba, Mr. Brunton.
Syphax, Mr. Murray.
Lucius, Mr. Claremont.
Decius, Mr. Williams.
Lucia, Miss Marriott.
Marcia, Mrs. Litchfield.
Mutineers, Guards, etc.
SCENE—The Governor’s Palace in Utica.
Act The First
Scene 1
A Hall.
Enter Portius and Marcus.
Por. The dawn is overcast, the morning low’rs,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, the 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 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!
Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy;
I’m tortured e’en to madness, when I think
On the proud victor—ev’ry time he’s named,
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 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 envied:
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 sufferings 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 them.
Marc. 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 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 virtue, join’d with such success,
Distracts my very soul! Our father’s fortune
Would almost tempt 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 see’st not that thy brother is thy rival;
But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Aside.
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 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 the 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,
Ev’n 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.
Marc. Why then dost treat me with rebukes, instead
Of kind condoling cares, and friendly sorrow?
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:
He must not find this softness hanging on me.
[Exit Marcus.
Enter Sempronius.
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 friendship,
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 wond’rous man my father,
Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious
To thy friend’s vows, I might be blest 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
In 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 disposed 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 used me ill; he has refused
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.
Besides, his baffled arms, and ruin’d cause,
Are bars to my ambition. Cæsar’s favour,
That show’rs down greatness on his friends, will raise me
To Rome’s first honours. If I give up Cato,
I claim, in my reward, his captive daughter.
But Syphax comes——
Enter Syphax.
Syph. 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.
Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there’s no time to waste;
Ev’n while we speak, our conqueror comes on,
And gathers ground upon us every moment.
Alas! thou know’st not Cæsar’s active soul,
With what a dreadful course he rushes on
From war to war. In vain has nature form’d
Mountains and oceans t’oppose his passage;
He bounds o’er all.
One day more
Will set the victor thund’ring at our gates.
But, tell me, hast thou yet drawn o’er young Juba?
That still would recommend thee more to Cæsar,
And challenge better terms.
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 principles
Of faith and honour, and I know not what,
That have corrupted his Numidian temper,
And struck th’ infection into all his soul.
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,
A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in earnest,
Clothe thy feign’d zeal in rage, in fire, in fury!
Syph. In troth, thou’rt able to instruct grey hairs,
And teach the wily African deceit.
Sem. Once more be sure to try thy skill on Juba.
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.
Jub. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone.
I have observed of late thy looks are fall’n,
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?
Syph. ’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.
Jub. Why dost thou cast out such ungenerous terms
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?
Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,
Amidst our barren rocks and burning sands,
That does not tremble at the Roman name?
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 javelin 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.
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;
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.
Syph. 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 practises 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.
Jub. 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!
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.
Jub. 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!
Jub. What wouldst thou have me do?
Syph. Abandon Cato.
Jub. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan
By such a loss.
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.
Jub. 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 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 brimful of tears) then sighing cried,
Pr’ythee be careful of my son!——His grief
Swell’d up so high, he could not utter more.
Jub. Alas! thy story melts away my soul!
That best of fathers! how shall I discharge
The gratitude and duty that I owe him?
Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart.
Jub. 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 sea,
When not a breath of wind flies o’er its surface.
Syph. Alas! my prince, I’d guide you to your safety.
Jub. I do believe thou wouldst; but tell me how?
Syph. Fly from the fate that follows Cæsar’s foes.
Jub. My father scorn’d to do it.
Syph. And therefore died.
Jub. Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths,
Than wound my honour.
Syph. Rather say, your love.
Jub. 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?
Syph. 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.
Jub. ’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 tow’rs 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 consider—
Jub. Ha! Syphax, is’t not she?—She moves this way;
And with her Lucia, Lucius’s fair daughter.
My heart beats thick—I pr’ythee, Syphax, leave me.
Syph. Ten thousand curses fasten on them both!
Now will the woman, with a single glance,
Undo what I’ve been lab’ring all this while. [Exit Syphax.
Enter Marcia and Lucia.
Jub. 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 th’ approach of Cæsar.
Marcia. I should be grieved, young prince, to think my presence
Unbent your thoughts, and slacken’d them to arms,
While, warm with slaughter, our victorious foe
Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field.
Jub. Oh, Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns
And gentle wishes follow me to battle!
The thought will give new vigour to my arm,
And strength and weight to my descending sword,
And drive it in a tempest on the foe.
Marcia. My pray’rs and wishes always shall attend
The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue,
And men approved of by the gods and Cato.
Jub. That Juba may deserve thy pious cares,
I’ll gaze for ever on thy godlike father,
Transplanting one by one, into my life,
His bright perfections, till I shine like him.
Marcia. My father never, at a time like this,
Would lay out his great soul in words, and waste
Such precious moments.
Jub. 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;
Oh, 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.
Lucia. 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?
Marcia. ’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.
Lucia. Why will you fight against so sweet a passion,
And steel your heart to such a world of charms?
Marcia. How, Lucia! wouldst thou have me sink away
In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love,
When ev’ry moment Cato’s life’s at stake?
Cæsar comes arm’d with terror and revenge,
And aims his thunder at my father’s head.
Should not the sad occasion swallow up
My other cares?
Lucia. 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 mould,
Enfeebled all my soul with tender passions,
And sunk me ev’n below my own weak sex:
Pity and love, by turns, oppress my heart.
Marcia. Lucia, disburden all thy cares on me,
And let me share thy most retired distress.
Tell me, who raises up this conflict in thee?
Lucia. I need not blush to name them, when I tell thee
They’re Marcia’s brothers, and the sons of Cato.
Marcia. They both behold thee with their sister’s eyes,
And often have reveal’d their passion to me.
But tell me, which of them is Lucia’s choice?
Lucia. Suppose ‘twere Portius, could you blame my choice?—
Oh, Portius, thou hast stolen away my soul!
Marcus is over warm, 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.
Marcia. Alas, poor youth!
How will thy coldness raise
Tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom!
I dread the consequence.
Lucia. You seem to plead
Against your brother Portius.
Marcia. Heav’n forbid.
Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover,
The same compassion would have fall’n on him.
Lucia. Was ever virgin love distress’d like mine!
Portius 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.
Marcia. Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our sorrows,
But to the gods submit the event of things.
Our lives, discolour’d 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 heav’n in its fair bosom shows.
[Exeunt.
Act The Second
Scene 1
The Senate sitting.
Flourish.
Enter Cato.
Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in council;
Cæsar’s approach has summon’d 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 Cæsar’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 Lybia’s sultry deserts.
Fathers, pronounce your thoughts: are they still fix’d
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.
Sem. Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to chuse, slav’ry 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 throng’d 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 slaughter’d citizens,
Or share their fate!—
To battle!
Great Pompey’s shade complains that we are slow;
And Scipio’s ghost walks unrevenged amongst us.
Cato. 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 tow’ring phrensy and distraction.
Lucius, we next would know what’s your opinion.
Luc. My thoughts, I must confess, are turn’d on peace.
Already have our quarrels fill’d 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: Heav’n and earth will witness,
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.
Cato. Let us appear nor rash nor diffident;
Immod’rate valour 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 desp’rate: we have bulwarks round us;
Within our walls are troops inured to toil
In Afric’s heat, and season’d 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 Cæsar’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.
Marc. Fathers, this moment, as I watch’d the gate,
Lodged on my post, a herald is arrived
From Cæsar’s camp, and with him comes old Decius,
The Roman knight; he carries in his looks
Impatience, and demands to speak with Cato.
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 Cæsar.
His message may determine our resolves.
Enter Decius.
Dec. Cæsar sends health to Cato—
Cato. Could he send it
To Cato’s slaughter’d friends, it would be welcome.
Are not your orders to address the senate?
Dec. My business is with Cato. Cæsar sees
The straits to which you’re driven; and, as he knows
Cato’s high worth, is anxious for your life.
Cato. 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.
Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Cæsar;
Her gen’rals and her consuls are no more,
Who check’d his conquests, and denied his triumphs.
Why will not Cato be this Cæsar’s friend?
Cato. These very reasons thou hast urged forbid it.
Dec. 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 ev’ry hour to burst upon it;
Still may you stand high in your country’s honours—
Do but comply, and make your peace with Cæsar;
Rome will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato,
As on the second of mankind.
Cato. No more;
I must not think of life on such conditions.
Dec. Cæsar 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.
Cato. 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.
Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom——
Cato. 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 favour,
And strive to gain his pardon from the people.
Dec. A style like this becomes a conqueror.
Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman.
Dec. What is a Roman, that is Cæsar’s foe?
Cato. Greater than Cæsar: he’s a friend to virtue.
Dec. 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.
Cato. Let him consider that, who drives us hither.
‘Tis Cæsar’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;
Did’st 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 Cæsar.
Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to Cæsar,
For all his gen’rous cares and proffer’d friendship?
Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain:
Presumptuous man! the gods take care of Cato.
Would Cæsar show the greatness of his soul,
Bid him employ his care for these my friends,
And make good use of his ill-gotten pow’r,
By sheltering men much better than himself.
Dec. Your high, unconquer’d heart makes you forget
You are a man. You rush on your destruction.
But I have done. When I relate hereafter
The tale of this unhappy embassy,
All Rome will be in tears. [Exit Decius.
Sem. Cato, we thank thee.
The mighty genius of immortal Rome
Speaks in thy voice; thy soul breathes liberty.
Cæsar will shrink to hear the words thou utter’st,
And shudder in the midst of all his conquests.
Luc. The senate owns its gratitude to Cato,
Who with so great a soul consults its safety,
And guards our lives, while he neglects his own.
Sem. 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.
Cato. 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.
Sem. Cato, my resentments
Are sacrificed to Rome—I stand reproved.
Cato. Fathers, ‘tis time you come to a resolve.
Luc. Cato, we all go in to your opinion;
Cæsar’s behaviour has convinced the senate
We ought to hold it out till terms arrive.
Sem. We ought to hold it out till death; but, Cato,
My private voice is drown’d amidst the senate’s.
Cato. 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 Heav’n may say, it ought to be prolong’d.
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 Cæsar.
Jub. 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 order’d me to march for Utica,
(Alas! I thought not then his death so near!)
Wept o’er me, press’d me in his aged arms,
And, as his griefs gave way, “My son,” said he,
“Whatever fortune shall befal thy father,
Be Cato’s friend; he’ll train thee up to great
And virtuous deeds; do but observe him well,
Thou’lt shun misfortunes, or thou’lt learn to bear them.”
Cato. Juba, thy father was a worthy prince,
And merited, alas! a better fate;
But Heav’n thought otherwise.
Jub. 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.
Cato. It is an honest sorrow, and becomes thee.
Jub. 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 appear’d,
Loaden with gifts, and fill’d the courts of Zama.
Cato. I am no stranger to thy father’s greatness.
Jub. 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
Th’ 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.
Cato. And canst thou think
Cato will fly before the sword of Cæsar?
Reduced, like Hannibal, to seek relief
From court to court, and wander up and down
A vagabond in Afric?
Jub. 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.
Cato. Thy nobleness of soul obliges me.
But know, young prince, that valour soars above
What the world calls misfortune and affliction.
These are not ills; else would they never fall
On Heav’n’s first fav’rites, 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 conceal’d
In the smooth seasons and the calms of life.
Jub. I’m charm’d, whene’er thou talk’st; I pant for virtue,
And all my soul endeavours at perfection.
Cato. Dost thou love watchings, abstinence, and toil,
Laborious virtues all? Learn them from Cato;
Success and fortune must thou learn from Cæsar.
Jub. The best good fortune that can fall on Juba,
The whole success at which my heart aspires,
Depends on Cato.
Cato. What does Juba say?
Thy words confound me.
Jub. I would fain retract them.
Give them me back again: they aimed at nothing.
Cato. Tell me thy wish, young prince; make not my ear
A stranger to thy thoughts.
Jub. Oh! they’re extravagant;
Still let me hide them.
Cato. What can Juba ask,
That Cato will refuse?
Jub. I fear to name it.
Marcia—inherits all her father’s virtues.
Cato. What wouldst thou say?
Jub. Cato, thou hast a daughter.
Cato. Adieu, young prince; I would not hear a word
Should lessen thee in my esteem. Remember,
The hand of fate is over us, and Heav’n
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.
Syph. How’s this, my prince? What, cover’d with confusion?
You look as if yon stern philosopher
Had just now chid you.
Jub. Syphax, I’m undone!
Syph. I know it well.
Jub. Cato thinks meanly of me.
Syph. And so will all mankind.
Jub. I’ve open’d to him
The weakness of my soul—my love for Marcia.
Syph. Cato’s a proper person to intrust
A love-tale with!
Jub. Oh, I could pierce my heart,
My foolish heart!
Syph. 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,
Ev’n in the Lybian dog-days, hunt him down,
Then charge him close,
And, stooping from your horse,
Rivet the panting savage to the ground.
Jub. Pr’ythee, no more.
Syph. How would the old king smile,
To see you weigh the paws, when tipp’d with gold,
And throw the shaggy spoils about your shoulders!
Jub. Syphax, this old man’s talk, though honey flow’d
In ev’ry word, would now lose all its sweetness.
Cato’s displeased, and Marcia lost for ever.
Syph. Young prince, I yet could give you good advice;
Marcia might still be yours.
Jub. As how, dear Syphax?
Syph. 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.
Jub. Can such dishonest thoughts
Rise up in man? Wouldst thou seduce my youth
To do an act that would destroy mine honour?
Syph. Gods, I could tear my hair to hear you talk!
Honour’s a fine imaginary notion,
That draws in raw and inexperienced men
To real mischiefs, while they hunt a shadow.
Jub. Wouldst thou degrade thy prince into a ruffian?
Syph. 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 Heav’n, was founded on a rape;
Your Scipios, Cæsars, Pompeys, and your Catos
(The gods on earth), are all the spurious blood
Of violated maids, of ravish’d Sabines.
Jub. Syphax, I fear that hoary head of thine
Abounds too much in our Numidian wiles.
Syph. Indeed, my prince, you want to know the world.
Jub. If knowledge of the world makes men perfidious,
May Juba ever live in ignorance!
Syph. Go, go; you’re young.
Jub. Gods, must I tamely bear
This arrogance, unanswer’d! Thou’rt a traitor,
A false old traitor.
Syph. I’ve gone too far. [Aside.
Jub. Cato shall know the baseness of thy soul.
Syph. I must appease this storm, or perish in it. [Aside.
Young prince, behold these locks, that are grown white
Beneath a helmet in your father’s battles.
Jub. Those locks shall ne’er protect thy insolence.
Syph. 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!—
Curse on the boy! how steadily he hears me