(For every inftant I expect him here)

If yet I can fubdue those stubborn principles
Of faith, of honour, and I know not what,
That have corrupted his Numidian temper,
And ftruck th' infection into all his foul.

SEMPRONIUS.

Be fure to prefs upon him every motive.
Juba's furrender, fince his father's death,
Would give up Afric into Cæfar's hands,
And make him lord of half the burning Zone.

SYPHAX.

But is it true, Sempronius, that your Senate Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious! Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern

Our frauds, unless they 're cover'd thick with art.

SEMPRONIUS.

Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal My thoughts in paffion ('tis the surest way); I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country, And mouth at Cæfar till I shake the Senate. Your cold hypocrify's a ftale device,

A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in earnest, Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury!

SYPHAX.

In troth, thou 'rt able to inftruct grey-hairs, And teach the wily African deceit !

SEMPRONIUS.

Once more, be fure to try thy fkill on Juba; Mean-while I'll haften to my Roman foldiers,

Inflame the mutiny, and underhand

Blow up their discontents, till they break out
Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato.
Remember, Syphax, we must work in hafte:
O think what anxious moments pass between
The birth of plots, and their laft fatal periods.
Oh! 't is a dreadful interval of time,
Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death!
Deftruction hangs on every word we speak,
On every thought, till the concluding stroke
.Determines all, and closes our design.

I'll try

SYPHAX.

[Exit.

if yet I can reduce to reason This head-ftrong youth, and make him spurn at Cato. The time is short, Cæfar comes rufhing on usBut hold young Juba fees me, and approaches.

Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone. I have obferv'd of late thy looks are fallen, O'ercaft 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 eye thus coldly on thy Prince?

SYPHAX.

'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts, Nor carry fmiles and fun-fhine in my face,

1

When discontent fits heavy at my heart.
I have not yet fo much the Roman in me.

JUBA.

Why doft thou caft out fuch ungenerous terms Against the lords and fovereigns of the world? Doft 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?

SYPHAX.

Gods! where's the worth that fets this people up Above your own Numidia's tawny fons?

Do they with tougher finews bend the bow?
Or flies the javelin swifter to its mark,
Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm?
Who like our active African instructs

The fiery fteed, and trains him to his hand?
Or guides in troops th' embattled elephant,
Loaden with war? Thefe, these are arts, my Prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.

JUBA.

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 unpolish'd world,
And lay it under the reftraint of laws ;
To make man mild and fociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious favage

With wisdom, difcipline, and liberal arts;

Th' embellishments of life: virtues like thefe
Make human nature shine, reform the foul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.

SYPHAX.

Patience, kind heavens!-Excufe an old man's warmth.

What are these wondrous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and this smooth behaviour,
That render man thus tractable and tame ?
Are they not only to disguise our paffions,
To fet our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the starts and fallies of the foul,
And break off all its commerce with the tongue;
In fhort, to change us into other creatures
Than what our nature and the gods defign'd us?

JUBA.

To ftrike thee dumb: turn up thine eyes to Cato! There may'st thou fee to what a godlike height The Roman virtues lift up mortal man. While good, and juft, and anxious for his friends, He's ftill feverely bent against himself; Renouncing fleep, and reft, and food, and ease, He ftrives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat; And when his fortune fets before him all The pomps and pleasures that his foul can wish, His rigid virtue will accept of none.

SYPHAX.

Believe me, Prince, there's not an African
That traverses our vaft Numidian deferts
In queft of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises these boasted virtues.

Coarfe are his meals, the fortune of the chase,
Amidst the running ftream he flakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and at the approach of night
On the first friendly bank he throws him down,
Or refts his head upon a rock till morn :
Then rifes fresh, pursues his wonted
game,
And if the following day, he chance to find
A new repast, or an untasted spring,
Bleffes his stars, and thinks it luxury.

JUBA.

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 fenfe, Where shall we find the man that bears affliction, Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato? Heavens, with what ftrength, what steadiness of mind, He triumphs in the midft of all his fufferings! How does he rise against a load of woes,

And thank the gods that throw the weight upon him!

SYPHAX.

"Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of foul: I think the Romans call it Stoicifm.

Had not your royal father thought so highly
Of Roman virtue, and of Cato's cause,
He had not fall'n by a slave's hand inglorious :
Nor would his flaughter'd army now have lain
On Afric's fands, disfigur'd with their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.