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When betwixt Marius and fierce Sylla toft,
The commonwealth her ancient freedom loft,
Some fhadow yet was left, fome fhew of power;
Now ev'n the name with Pompey is no more:
Senate and people all at once are gone,

Nor need the tyrant blush to mount the throne.
Oh, happy Pompey! happy in thy fate,
Happy by falling with the falling state,

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Thy death a benefit the gods did grant,

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Thon might'ft have liv'd those Pharian fwords to want.

Freedom, at least, thou dost by dying gain,

Nor liv't to fee thy Julia's father reign;

Free death is man's first blifs, the next is to be flain.
Such mercy only I from Juba crave,

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(If Fortune should ordain me Juba's flave)

my

head.

To Cæfar let him fhew, but fhew me dead,
And keep my carcafe, fo he takes
He faid, and pleas'd the noble shade below,
More than a thousand orators could do;
Though Tully too had lent his charming tongue,
And Rome's full Forum with his praise had rung.
But difcord now infects the fullen croud,
And now they tell their difcontents aloud:
When Tarchon first his flying enfigns bore,
Call'd out to march, and haften'd to the fhore;
Him Cato thus, purfuing as he mov'd,
Sternly bespoke, and justly thus reprov'd:

Oh, reftlefs author of the roving war,
Doft thou again piratic arms prepare?
Pompey, thy terror and thy fcourge, is gone,
And now thou hop'ft to rule the seas alone.

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He

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He faid, and bent his frown upon the reft,
Of whom one bolder thus the chief addrefs'd,
And thus their wearinefs of war confefs d :

For Pompey's fake (nor thou disdain to hear)
The Civil War we wage, thefe arms we bear;
Him we preferr'd to peace: but, Cato, now,
That caufe, that master of our arms lies low.
Let us no more our abfent country mourn,
But to our homes and houfhold gods return;
To the chafte arms from whofe embrace we fled,
And the dear pledges of the nuptial bed.

For, oh what period can the war attend,

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Which nor Pharfalia's field nor Pompey's death can end?
The better times of flying life are paft,

Let death come gently on in peace at laft.
Let age at length with providential care
The neceffary pile and urn prepare,
All rites the cruel Civil War denies,
Part ev'n of Pompey yet unbury'd lies.
Though vanquish'd, yet by no barbarian hand,
We fear not exile in a foreign land,

Nor are our necks by fortune now befpoke,
To bear the Scythian or Armenian yoke ;
The victor ftill a citizen we own,

And yield obedience to the Roman gown.

While Pompey liv'd, he bore the fovereign fway;
Cæfar was next, and him we now obey;
With reverence be the facred shade ador'd,
But war has given us now another lord :
To Cæfar and fuperior chance we yield :
All was determin'd in Emathia's field,

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Nor shall our arms on other leaders wait,

Nor for uncertain hopes moleft the state,

We follow'd Pompey once, but now we follow Fate.
What terms, what fafety, can we hope for now,
But what the victor's mercy fhall allow ?
Once Pompey's prefence juftify'd the caufe,
Then fought we for our liberties and laws;
With him the honours of that cause lie dead,
And all the fanctity of war is fled.

If, Cato, thou for Rome these arms dost bear,
If ftill thy country only be thy care,

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Seek we the legions where Rome's enfigns fly,
Where her proud eagles wave their wings on high:
No matter who to Pompey's power fucceeds,

We follow where a Roman conful leads.

This faid, he leap'd aboard; the youthful fort
Join in his flight, and hafte to leave the port;
The fenfelefs croud their liberty difdain,
And long to wear victorious Cæfar's chain.
Tyrannic power now fudden feem'd to threat
The ancient glories of Rome's free-born state,
Till Cato spoke, and thus deferr'd her fate :
Did then your vows and fervile prayers confpire

Nought but a haughty mafter to defire ?

Did you, when eager for the battle, come

The slaves of Pompey, not the friends of Rome ?
Now, weary of the toil, from war you fly,

And idly lay your useless armour by;

Your hands neglect to wield the fhining sword,

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Nor can you fight but for a king and lord,

Some

Some mighty chief you want, for whom to sweat ;
Yourselves you know not, or at least forget,
And fondly bleed, that others may be great:
Meanly you toil, to give yourselves away;
And die, to leave the world a tyrant's prey.
The gods and fortune do at length afford
A cause moft worthy of a Roman fword.
At length 'tis fafe to conquer. Pompey now
Cannot, by your fuccefs, too potent grow;
Yet now, ignobly, you withhold your hands,
When nearer liberty your aid demands.

Of three who durft the fovereign power invade,
Two by your fortune's kinder doom lie dead;
And fhall the Pharian fword and Parthian bow
Do more for liberty and Rome, than you?
Bafe as you are, in vile fubjection go,
And fcorn what Ptolemy did ill bestow.
Ignobly innocent, and meanly good,

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You durft not stain your hardy hands in blood;
Feebly awhile you fought, but foon did yield,
And fled the first from dire Pharfalia's field;
Go then fecure, for Cæfar will be good,

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Will pardon those who are with ease fubdued;
The pitying victor will in mercy fpare

The wretch, who never durft provoke his war.
Go, fordid flaves! one lordly master gone,
Like heirlooms go from father to the fon.
Still to enhance your fervile merit more,
Bear fad Cornelia weeping from the shore;
Meanly for hire expofe the matron's life,
Metellus' daughter fell, and Pompey's wife;

Сс

47°

Take

Take too his fons : let Cæfar find in you
Wretches that may ev'n Ptolemy out-do.
But let not my devoted life be spar'd,
The tyrant greatly shall that deed reward;
Such is the price of Cato's hated head,

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That all your former wars fhall well be paid;
Kill me, and in my blood do Cæfar right,

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'Tis mean to have no other guilt but flight.

He said, and stopp'd the flying naval power;
Back they return'd, repenting, to the fhore.
As when the bees their waxen town forfake,
Careless in air their wandering way they take,
No more in clustering fwarms condens'd they fly,
But fleet uncertain through the various sky;
No more from flowers they fuck the liquid fweet,
But all their care and industry forget:
Then if at length the tinkling brass they hear,
With fwift amaze their flight they foon forbear;
Sudden their flowery labours they renew,
Hang on the thyme, and fip the balmy dew.
Meantime, fecure on Hybla's fragrant plain,
With joy exults the happy fhepherd swain ;
Proud that his art had thus preferv'd his store,
He fcorns to think his homely cottage poor.
With fuch prevailing force did Cato's care
The fierce inpatient foldiers minds prepare, ́
To learn obedience, and endure the war.

And now their minds, unknowing of repose,
With bufy toil to exercise he chofe;
Still with fucceffive labours are they ply'd,
And oft in long and weary marches try`d.

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