« ПредишнаНапред »
SYPH. Sir, your great father never used me thus.
Alas! he's dead! but can you e'er forget
drew from him in your last farewell ?
Swelled up so high, he could not utter more. JUBA. Alas! thy story melts away my soul.
That best of fathers ! how shall | discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him!
Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms,
When not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface.
And therefore died. JUBA. Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths, Than wound
Rather say, your
love. JUBA. 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 ?
'Tis easy to divert and break its force:
The pale, unripened beauties of the north.
and palls upon
The tincture of a skin, that I admire.
Soften the rigour of her father's virtues.
But on my knees I beg you would consider JUBA. Hah! Syphax, is 't not she ?—she moves this way:
And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter.
My heart beats thick—I prithee, Syphax, leave me.
Now will this woman, with a single glance,
JUBA, MARCIA, LUCIA.
The face of war, and make ev'n horror smile!
And for a while forget the approach of Cæsar.
Unbent your thoughts, and slackened 'em to arms,
Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field.
And gentle wishes follow me to battle !
· The love-scenes in Cato are beautiful in themselves, and the play could not have made its fortune without them. But “Non erat hic locus,"-yet they are not so much out of place here, as they might have been elsewhere ; for they serve, in some degree, to cover the defect of the fable, which is very undramatic; and could, I think, by no management, be worked up to a due degree of tragic distress.
Add strength and weight to my descending sword,
And drive it in a tempest on the foe.
The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue,
And men approved of by the gods and Cato.
I'll gaze for ever on thy godlike father,
His bright perfections, till I shine like him.
Would lay out his great soul in words, and waste
Such precious moments.
Thy reproofs are just,
[Exit. SCENE VI.
Marcia, you're too severe:
A prince that loves and dotes on you to death ?
His air, his voice, his looks, and honest soul
I dare not trust myself to hear him talk.
And steel your heart to such a world of charms ?
In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love,
Luc. Why have not I this constancy of mind,
Who have so many griefs to try its force ?
Pity and love, by.turns, oppress my heart.
And let me share thy most retired distress
Tell me who raises up this conflict in thee?
They're Marcia's brothers, and the sons of Cato.
And often have revealed their passion to me.
I long to know, and yet I dread to hear it.
But tell me, which of them is Lucia's choice ?
But in my love-why wilt thou make me name him?
Pleased and disgusted with it knows not what-
I must hereafter call my happy brother? Luc. Suppose 'twere Portius, could
And tremble at his vehemence of temper.
Lucia, thou know'st not half the love he bears thee;
Tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom!
I dread the consequence.
You seem to plead
Heaven forbid !
The same compassion would have fallen on him.
Portius himself oft falls in tears before me,
The sad effects that it would have on Marcus.
And would not plunge his brother in despair,
But waits for happier times, and kinder moments.
In endless griefs, and labyrinths of woe,
Tormenting thought! it cuts into my soul.
But to the gods permit the event of things.
with happier hours.
[Exeunt. 1 Falls in tears.] It should be, “falls into tears ;” he might have said,
Oft Portius' self falls into tears before me.” ? So the pure limpid stream.] A beautiful simile in the mouth of a lady, and the most natural that could be in the mouth of a Roman lady, who had frequent opportunities of seeing the yellow Tiber, as it was called, contract, and discharge its colour.
That no grace might be wanting, we have it introduced by a metaphor taken from this circumstance,
“Our lives discoloured." I question if there be another instance of so consummate art, and taste, in any writer.