As Roman priests their pardons? Do they barter,
Screw up, like you, the buyer to a price,
And doubly sell what was designed a gift?

Gar. My lord, this language ill beseems your
nobleness;

Nor come I here to bandy words with madmen.
Behold the royal signet of the queen,
Which amply speaks her meaning.-You, the
prisoners,

Have heard, at large, its purport, and must instantly

Resolve upon the choice of life or death.

Pem. Curse on-But wherefore do I loiter here?

I'll to the queen this moment, and there know What 'tis this mischief-making priest intends.

[Exit. Gar. Your wisdom points you out a proper

course.

A word with you, Lieutenant.

[Talks with the Lieutenant aside.

Guil. Must we part, then? What are those hopes that flattered us but now; Those joys, that, like the spring, with all its flowers, Poured out their pleasures every where around us? In one poor minute gone; at once they withered, And let their place al! desolate behind them.

L. J. Gray. Such is this foolish world, and
such the certainty

Of all the boasted blessings it bestows:
Then, Guilford, let us have no more to do with it;
Think only how to leave it as we ought;
But trust no more, and be deceived no more.
Guit. Yes, I will copy thy divine example,
And tread the paths are pointed out by thee:
By thee instructed, to the fatal block:

I bend my head with joy, and think it happiness
To give my life a ransom for my faith.
From thee, thou angel of my heart, I learn
That greatest, hardest task, to part with thee.
L. J. Gray. Oh, gloriously resolved! Heaven
is my witness,

My heart rejoices in thee more even now,
Thus constant as thou art, in death thus faithful,
Than when the holy priest first joined our hands,
And knit the sacred knot of bridal love.

Gar. The day wears fast; Lord Guilford, have
you thought?

Will you lay hold on life?

Guil. What are the terms?

Gar. Death, or the mass, attend you.
Guil. 'Tis determined:

Lead to the scaffold.

Gar. Bear him to his fate.

Guil. Oh, let me fold thee once more in my

Forgetting ceremony, like two friends
That have a little business to be done,
Take a short leave, and haste to meet again.
Guil. Rest on that hope, my soul-my wife-
L. J. Gray. No more.

Guil. My sight hangs on thee-Oh, support me, Heaven,

In this last pang-and let us meet in bliss!
[GUILFORD is ied off by the guard.
L. J. Gray. Can nature bear this stroke?
Wom. Alas, she faints!

[Supporting. L. J. Gray. Wilt thou fail now-The killing stroke is past,

And all the bitterness of death is o'er.

Gar. Here let the dreadful hand of vengeance

stay;

Have pity on your youth, and blooming beauty;
Cast not away the good which Heaven bestows;
Time may have many years in store for you,
All crowned with fair prosperity. Your husband
Has perished in perverseness.

L. J. Gray. Cease, thou raven,
Nor violate, with thy profaner malice,
My bleeding Guilford's ghost-'Tis gone, 'tis
flown:

But lingers on the wing, and waits for me.

[The scene draws, and discovers a scaf-
fold hung with black, executioner
and guards.

And see my journey's end.
1 Wom. My dearest lady!
2 Wom. Oh, misery!

[Weeping.

L. J. Gray. Forbear, my gentle maids, Nor wound my peace with fruitless lamentations; The good and gracious hand of Providence Shall raise you better friends than I have been. 1 Wom. Oh, never, never!—

L. J. Gray. Help to disarray, And fit me for the block; do this last service, And do it cheerfully. Now you will see Your poor unhappy mistress sleep in peace, And cease from all her sorrows. These few trifles,

The pledges of a dying mistress' love,
Receive and share among you. Thou, Maria,
[To 1 Wom

Hast been my old, my very faithful servant:
In dear remembrance of thy love, I leave thee
This book, the law of everlasting truth:
Make it thy treasure still; 'twas my support,
When all help else forsook me.

Gar. Will you yet

Repent, be wise, and save your precious life? L. J. Gray. Oh, Winchester! has learning taught thee that,

Gar. Wilt thou then die? Thy blood be on thy head.

L. J. Gray. My blood be where it falls; let the earth hide it;

And may it never rise, or call for vengeance.
Oh, that it were the last shall fall a victim
To zeal's inhuman wrath! Thou, gracious Hea-

ven,

Hear and defend at length thy suffering people;
Raise up a monarch of the royal blood,
Brave, pious, equitable, wise, and good.
In thy due season let the hero come,
To save thy altars from the rage of Rome:
Long let him reign, to bless the rescued land,
And deal out justice with a righteous hand.
And when he fails, oh, may he leave a son,
With equal virtues to adorn his throne;
To latest times the blessing to convey,
And guard that faith for which I die to-day!
[Lady JANE goes up to the scaffold.
The scene closes.

Enter PEMBROKE.

Pem. Horror on horror! Blasted be the hand

trunk

Shall live in these distracted eyes for ever!-
Curse on thy fatal arts, thy cruel counsels!
[TO GARDINER
The queen is deaf, and pitiless as thou art.
Gar. The just reward of heresy and treason
Is fallen upon them both, for their vain obsti

nacy;

Untimely death, with infamy on earth,
And everlasting punishment hereafter.

Pem. And canst thou tell? Who gave thee to
explore

The secret purposes of Heaven, or taught thee
To set a bound to mercy unconfined?
But know, thou proud, perversely-judging Win-
chester!

Howe'er you hard, imperious censures doom,
And portion out our lot in worlds to come,
Those, who, with honest hearts, pursue the right,
And follow faithfully truth's sacred light,

| Though suffering here, shall from their sorrowS

cease,

Rest with the saints, and dwell in endless peace. [Exeunt.

THE palms of virtue heroes oft have worn;
Those wreaths to-night a female brow adorn.
The destin'd saint, unfortunately brave,
Sunk with those altars which she strove to save.
Greatly she dar'd to prop the juster side,
As greatly with her adverse fate complied,
Did all that Heav'n could ask, resign'd, and died;
Died for the land for which she wish'd to live,
And gain'd that liberty she could not give.
Oh, happy people of this fav'rite isle,
On whom so many better angels smile!
For you, kind Heav'n new blessings still supplies,
Bids other saints, and other guardians rise:
For you the fairest of her sex is come,
Adopts our Britain, and forgets her home:
For truth and you the heroine declines
Austria's proud eagles, and the Indian mines.

What sense of such a bounty can be shown!
But Heav'n must make the vast reward its own,
And stars shall join to make her future crown.
Your gratitude with ease may be expressed;
Strive but to be, what she would make you,
bless'd.

Let not vile faction vex the vulgar ear,
With fond surmise, and false affected fear:
Confirm but to yourselves the given good;
'Tis all she asks, for all she has bestow'd.
Such was our great example shewn to-day,
And with such thanks our author's pains repay.
If from these scenes, to guard your faith you

learn;

If for our laws you shew a just concern;
If you are taught to dread a popish reign;
Our beauteous patriot has not died in vain.

BY

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart, To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream through every age; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; In pitying love we but our weakness shew, And wild ambition well deserves its woe. Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and god-like Cato was : No common object to your sight displays, But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys; A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling in a falling state! While Cato gives his little senate laws, What bosom beats not in his country's cause?

Who sees him act but envies ev'ry deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to
bleed?

Ev'n when proud Cæsar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,"
Shew'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's rev'rend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast,
The triumph ceas'd-tears gush'd from ev'ry eye,
The world's great victor past unheeded by:
Her last good man, dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend: Be worth like this approv'd,
And shew you have the virtue to be mov'd;
With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she sub-
du'd;

Our scenes precariously subsist too long
On French translations, and Italian song:
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage;
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage;
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

Enter PORTIUS and MARCUS.

Por. THE dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,

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, even to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he's named,
Pharsalia rises to my view!-I see

The insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field, Strewed with Rome's citizens, and drenched 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 Heaven,
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 power 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, covered with Numidian guards, directs
A feeble army, and an empty senate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
By Heaven, such virtue, joined with such suc-

cess,

Distracts my very soul! our father's fortune Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts. For. Remember what our father oft has told

us:

The ways of Heaven are dark and intricate,

Passion unpitied, and successless love,
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind—
Por. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy
rival;

But I must hide it, for I know thy temper.

[Aside. Now, Marcus, now thy virtue's on the proof: Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve, And call up all thy father in thy soul: To quell the tyrant, Love, and guard thy heart On this weak side, where most our nature fails, Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son.

Marc. Portius, the counsel which I cannot take,

Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Bid me for honour plunge into a war
Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death,
Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not slow
To follow glory, and confess his father.
Love is not to be reasoned down, or lost
In high ambition, or a thirst of greatness:
'Tis second life, it grows into the soul,
Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse;
I feel it here: my resolution melts-

Por. 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 smothered 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 shew 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 shew
A virtue that has cast me at a distance,.
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?
Por. Marcus, I know thy generous temper

well;

Fling but the appearance of dishonour on it,
It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.
Marc. A brother's sufferings claim a brother's

pity.

Por. Heaven knows I pity thee! Behold my

eyes,

Even 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 distempered 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 MARC.

Good-morrow, Portius; let us once embrace,
Once more embrace, while yet we both are free.
To-morrow, should we thus express a friendship,
Each might receive a slave into his arms.
This sun, perhaps, this morning's sun's the last,
That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty.

Por. My father has this morning called 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 flushed with conquest. Oh, my Por
tius!

Could I but call that wondrous man my father,
Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious
To thy friend's vows, I might be blessed 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 charmed. 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 shews thee in the fairest point of light,
To make thy virtues or thy faults conspicuous.
Por. Well dost thou seem to check my linger-
ing here
On this important hour-I'll straight away,

And while the fathers of the senate meet In close debate, to weigh the event 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 spurred,
And every moment quickened to the course.
Cato has used me ill: he has refused
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.
Besides, his baffled arms, and ruined cause,
Are bars to my ambition. Cæsar's favour,
That showers down blessings 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 mas

ter.

Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to

waste;

Even 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 formed
Mountains and oceans to oppose his passage;
He bounds o'er all; victorious in his march,
The Alps and Pyreneans sink before him:
Through winds, and waves, and storms, he
works his way,

Impatient for the battle; one day more
Will see the victor thundering 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 the 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