And purple greatness met my ripened years.
When first I came to empire, I was borne
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs;
The wish of nations; and the willing world
Received me as its pledge of future peace.
I was so great, so happy, so beloved,

Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains

And worked against my fortune, chid her from me,
And turned her loose: yet still she came again.
My careless days and my luxurious nights
At length have wearied her, and now she's gone,
Gone, gone, divorced for ever. Help me, soldier,
To curse this madman, this industrious fool,
Who laboured to be wretched. Pr'ythee curse me.
Vent. No.

Ant. Why?

Vent. You are too sensible already

Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings;
And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first

To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.

I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds, Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes. Ant. I know thou wouldst.

Vent. I will.

Ant. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Vent. You laugh.

Ant. I do, to see officious love

Give cordials to the dead.

Vent. You would be lost, then?

Ant. I am.

Vent. I say you are not. Try your fortune.

Ant. I have to the utmost. Dost thou think me des

perate

Without just cause? No; when I found all lost

Beyond repair, I hid me from the world,

And learnt to scorn it here; which now I do

So heartily, I think it is not worth

The cost of keeping.

Vent. Cæsar thinks not so:

He'll thank you for the gift he could not take.

You would be killed like Tully, would you? Do,
Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely.
Ant. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve.

Vent. I can die with you too, when time shall serve; But fortune calls upon us now to live,

To fight, to conquer.

Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius.

Vent. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.

Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you,
And long to call you chief. By painful journeys
I led them, patient both of heat and hunger,
Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile.
'Twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces,

Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands: there's virtue in them.

They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates

Than your trim bands can buy.

Ant. Where left you them? Vent. I said in Lower Syria. Ant. Bring them hither; There may be life in these.

Vent. They will not come.

Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised

aids,

To double my despair? They're mutinous.

Vent. Most firm and loyal.

Ant. Yet they will not march

To succour me. Oh trifler!

Vent. They petition

You would make haste to head them.

Ant. I'm besieged.

Vent. There's but one way shut up. How came I hither! Ant. I will not stir.

Vent. They would, perhaps, desire

A better reason.

Ant. I never used

My soldiers to demand a reason of

My actions. Why did they refuse to march?

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.

Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conquer,
And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms,
Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast,
You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels,
And calls this diamond such or such a tax;
Each pendant in her ear shall be a province.

Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free license
On all my other faults; but, on your life,
No word of Cleopatra: she deserves
More worlds than I can lose.

Vent. Behold, you Powers,

To whom you have intrusted human kind!
See Europe, Africa, Asia, put in balance,

And all weighed down by one light, worthless woman!
I think the gods are Antonies, and give,

Like prodigals, this nether world away

To none but wasteful hands.

Ant. You grow presumptuous.

Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. Ant. Plain love!—plain arrogance, plain insolence! Thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor, Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall. Oh that thou wert my equal; great in arms As the first Cæsar was, that I might kill thee Without a stain to honour!

Vent. You may kill me;

You have done more already;-called me traitor.
Ant. Art thou not one?

Vent. For showing you yourself,

Which none else durst have done? But had I been

That name, which I disdain to speak again,

I needed not have sought your abject fortunes,
Come to partake your fate, to die with you.
What hindered me to have led my conquering eagles
To fill Octavius' bands? I could have been
A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor,

And not have been so called.

Ant. Forgive me, soldier; I've been too passionate.

Vent. You thought me false;

Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir, Pray, kill me: yet you need not; your unkindness Has left your sword no work.

Ant. I did not think so;

I said it in my rage. Pr'ythee forgive me:
Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery
Of what I would not hear?

Vent. No prince but you

Could merit that sincerity I used,

Nor durst another man have ventured it;
But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes,
Were sure the chief and best of human race,
Framed in the very pride and boast of nature;
So perfect, that the gods, who formed you, wondered
At their own skill, and cried-A lucky hit

Has mended our design. Their envy hindered,
Else you had been immortal, and a pattern,
When Heaven would work for ostentation's sake,
To copy out again.

VII.-CATO'S SENATE.

(ADDISON.)

Cato. FATHERS, we once again are met in council, Cæsar's approach has summoned 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 Libya's sultry deserts.

Fathers, pronounce your thoughts: are they still fixed 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.

Sempronius. My voice is still for war.
Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to choose, slavery 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 thronged 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 slaughtered citizens,

Or share her fate ! the corpses of half her senate
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we
Sit here deliberating in cold debates

If we should sacrifice our lives to honour,
Or wear them out in servitude and chains.
Rouse up, for shame! our brothers of Pharsalia
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud-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 towering frenzy and distraction.
Are not the lives of those who draw the sword
In Rome's defence intrusted to our care?
Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter
Might not the impartial world with reason say,
We lavished at our deaths the blood of thousands,
To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious?
Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.
Lucius. My thoughts, I must confess, are turned on
Already have our quarrels filled the world [peace.
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.