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By thee and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man ere long, and this new world, thall know.



JUB. CYPHAX, I joy to meet thee thus alone.

I have obferv'd 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 eyes thus coldly on thy prince ?

Syph. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts,
Or carry smiles and funshine in my face,
When discontent fits heavy at my heart:
I have not yet fo much the Roman in me.

JUB. Why doft thou cast out fach ungen'rous terms
Against the lords and fov'reigns of the world?
Dost thou not see mankind fall down before them,
And own the force of their fuperior virtue ?
Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,
Amidst our barren rocks, and burning fands,
That does not tremble at the Roman name?

Syph. Gods! Where's the worth that sets this people up
Above your own Numidia’s tawny fons ?
Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow?
Or flies the jav’lin fwifter 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,


Loaden 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 plac'd in bones and nerves,
A Roman foul is bent on higher views :
To civilize the rude unpolith'd world,
To lay it under the restraint of laws;
To make man mild, and sociable 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 fine, reform the soul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.
Syph. Patience, juft Heav'ns !~Excuse an old man's

warmth. i
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 paflions,
To set our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the starts and fallies of the foul,
And break off all its commerce with the congue ?
In short, to change us into other creatures,
Than what our nature and the gods design'd us

Jub. To strike thee dumb : 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 juft, and anxious for his friends,
He's still severely bent against himfelf ;
Renouncing feep, and rest, and food, and ease,
He strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat :
And when his fortune fets 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 vaft Numidian deserts
In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises these boasted virtues.
Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase,
Amidst the running stream he flakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and at th' 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 repaft, or an untasted spring,
Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.

Jur. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern
What virtues grow from ignorance and choice,
Nor how the hero differs from the brute.
But grant that others could with equal glory
Look down on pleasures, and the baits of sense ;
Where shall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato ?
Heav'ns! with what strength, what steadiness of mind,
He triumphs in the midst of all his suff'rings !
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 fo highly
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause,
He had not fall’n by a slave's hand, inglorious :
Nor would his slaughter'd army now have lain


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On Afric fands disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.'

JUB. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh ?
My father's name brings tears into mine eyes.

Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills!
Jús. What would'At 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,
Left it should take more freedom than I'll give it.

Syph. Sir, your great father never us’d 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 blessings,
Which you drew from him in your last farewel ?
Still must I cherish the dear, sad 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,
Pr’ythee be careful of my son !- His grief
Swell’d up so high, he could not utter more.

Jub. Alas, the story melts away my soul.
That best of fathers ! how shall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him?
SXPH. By laying up his counsels in your heart.
А а


JUB. His counsels bade me yield to thy directions :
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 Aies 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.
Jus. My father scorn’d to do it.
Syph. And therefore dy’d.

JUB. Better to die ten thoufand deaths,
Than wound my honour.

Syph. Rather say you love. : Jub. Syphax, I've promis’d to preserve my temper; Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame. I long have stifed, and would fain conceal ?

Syph. Believe me, prince, tho' hard to conquer love, 'Tis eafy to divert and break its furce : 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 Auth'd with more exalted charms;

The fun that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and colour in their checks :
Were you with these, my prince, you'd foon 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 foon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her sex :
True, the is fair (Oh, how divinely fair!)


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