PROLOGUE BY MR. POP E.

T

SPOKEN BY MR. WILKS.

O wake the foul 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 fhuns by vulgar fprings to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; In pitying love we but our weakness show, And wild ambition well deferves its woe.. Here tears fhall flow from a more generous caufe, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : He bids your breafts with ancient ardor rife, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confefs'd in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and god like Cato was : No common object to your fight displays, But what with pleasure heaven itself surveys ;; A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state : While Cato gives his little fenate laws, What bofom beats not in his country's caufe? Who fees him act, but envies every deed?

Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?

of wars,

Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars,
The fpoils of nations, and the pomp
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,

Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's reverend image paft,

-

The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'er-caft,
The triumph ceas'd- -tears gush'd from every eye;
The world's great victor past unheeded by ;
Her laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd' Cæfar's lefs than Cato's fword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd,
And show you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued
Our scene precarioufly fubfifts too long

On French tranflation, and Italian fong.
Dare to have sense yourselves; affert the stage;
Be juftly warm'd with your own native rage.
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.

DRAMATIS

SYPHAX, General of the Numidians. Mr. CIBBER.

PORTIUS,

Sons of Cato.

MARCUS,

Mr. POWEL.

Mr. RYAN.

DECIUS, Ambassador from Cæfar. Mr. Bow MAN.

SCENE, a large Hall in the Governor's Palace of Utica,

HE dawn is over-cast, the morning lowers,

Tand heavily in clouds brings on the day,

The great, th' 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 Cæfar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and fees
Mankind grown thin by his deftructive sword :
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting,
To form new battles, and fupport his crimes.
Te Gods, what havock does ambition make.
Among your works! .

MARCU S.

Thy fteddy temper, Portius,

Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæfar,
In the calm lights of mild philofophy;

I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he 's nam'd
Pharfalia rifes to my view-I fee

Th' infulting tyrant prancing o'er the field
Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in flaughter,
His horfe's hoofs wet with Patrician blood.

Oh

Oh Portius, is there not fome chofen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the inan
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin ?

PORTI U-S.

Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,
And mixt with too much horror to be envy'd :
How does the luftre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness!
His fufferings fhine, and fpread a glory round him;,
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause

Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His fword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppreffion, tyranny, and power ufurp'd,

Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them.

MARCU S.

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 Cæfar?-
Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms

A poor epitome of Roman greatness,
And, cover'd with Numidian guards, dire&s
A feeble army, and an empty senate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.

By heavens, fuch virtues, join'd with fuch fuccefs,
Distract my very foul: our father's fortune
Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.

PORTIU S.

Remember what our father oft has told us:

The