LXXXIV. Scene between SHYLOCK and TUBAL.*

Shy.

HOW

OW now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? Have you heard any thing of my backsliding daughter? Tub. I often came where I heard of her, but could not find her.

Shy. Why, there, there, there, a diamond gone that cost me two thousand ducats at Frankfort! The curse never fell upon the nation till now! I never felt it before! Two thousand ducats in that and other precious jewels! I wish she lay dead at my fett! No news of them! And I know not what is spent in the search. Loss upon loss. The thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satifaction, no revenge; no ill-luck stirring but what lights on my shoulders. Tub. O yes, other men have ill luck too; Antonia as I heard in Genoa

Shy. (Interrupting him) What! has he had ill luck? Tub. Has had a ship cast away coming from Tripoli, Shy. Thank fortune! Is it true? Is it true?

Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped from the wreck.

Shy. I thank you, good Tubal. Good news! Good news! What, in Genoa, you spoke with them.

Tub. Your daughter, as heard, spent twenty ducats in one night.

Shy. You stick a dagger in me, Tubal. I never suall see my gold again. Twenty ducats in one night! Twenty ducats! O father Abraham!

Tub. There came several of Antonia's creditors in my company to Venice, who say he cannot but break.

Shy. I am glad on't. I'll plague him, I'li torture him; I am glad on't.

Tub. One of them shewed me a ring he had of your daughter for a monkey.

Shy. Out upon her; you torture me, Tubal! It was my ruby. I would not have given it for as many monkies as could stand tegether upon the Rialta.

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Tub. Antonia is certainly undone.

Shy. Ay, ay, there is some comfort in that. Go, Tubal,

Shylock had sent Tubal after his daughter, who had eloped fram his house. Antonia was a merchant hated by Shylock

engage an officer. Tell him to be ready; I'll be revenged on Antonia; I'll wash my hands to the elbows in his heart's blood.

LXXXV. JUBA AND SYPHAX.

fub. YPHAX, I joy to meet thee thus alone;

O'ercast with gloomy care and discontent :
Then, tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me
What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns,
And turn thy eyes thus coldly on thy prince.
Syph. 'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts,
Or carry smiles, or sunshine in my face,
When discontent sits heavy at my heart;

I have not so much of the Roman in me.

Jub. Why dost thou cast out such ungenerous terms Against the lords and sovereigns of the world? Dost thou not see mankind fall down before them, And own the force of their superior virtue?

Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,

Amidst our barren rocks and burning sands,
That does not tremble at the Roman name ?

Syph. Gods! Where's the worth that sets this people up
Above your own Numidia's tawney sons!
Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow?
Or flies the javelin swifter to its mark,
Launched with 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 the embattled elephant,
Laden with war? These, these are arts, my prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.
fub. These all are virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are placed in bones and nerves ;
A Roman soul is bent on higher views;
To civilize the rude unpolished 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 liberal arts;
The establishments of life ;-virtues like these

Make human nature shine, reform the soul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.

Syph. Patience, just Heavens !-Excuse an old man's What are those wond'rous civilizing arts,

[warmth.

This Romish polish, and this smooth behaviour,
That render man thus tractable and tame?
Are they not only to disguise our passions,
To set our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the starts and sallies of the soul,
And break off all its commerce with the tongue!
In short, to change us into other creatures,
Than what our nature or 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 mortal man.

up

While good, and just, and anxious for his friends,
He's still severely bent against himself;

Renouncing sleep, and rest, and food and ease,
He strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat;
And when his fortune sets before him all

The pomp and pleasure which his soul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.

Syph. Believe me, prince, there's not an African
That traverses our vast Numidian desarts
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 streams he slakes his thirst,
Toils all the day, and at the 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 the wonted game;
And if the following day he chance to find
A new repast, or an untasted spring,

Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.

fub. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern

What virtues grow from ignorance, and what from choice, Nor how the hero differs from the brute.

sense,

But grant that others could with equal glory
Look down on pleasures and the baits of
Where shall we find the man that bears afflictions,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?

Heavens! with what strength, what steadiness of mind,
He triumphs in the midst of all his sufferings !
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 so highly
Of Roman virtue and of Cato's cause,

He had not fallen by a slave's hand inglorious;
Nor would his slaughtered army now have lain
On Afric's sands, disfigured by their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
fub. 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!
fub. What would you have me to do?

Syph. Abandon Cato.

Jub. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan, by such a loss.

Syph. Ah, 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. Svphax, your zeal becomes importunate;
I have hitherto permitted it to rave,

And talk at large! but learn to keep it in,

Lest it should take more freedom than I'll give it.
Syph. Sir, your great father never used 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 farewell?
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 brimful of tears,) then sighing cry'd-
Prithee be careful of my son!His grief
Swell'd up so high he could not utter more.

Fub. Alas, the story melts away my soul!
The best of father's! how shall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him?
Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart.

fub. 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's sea,

When not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface.

Syph. Alas! my prince, I'll guide you to your safety. Fub. I do believe thou would'st; but tell me how? Syph. Fly from the fate of Cæsar's foes.

fub. My father scorn'd to do it.

Syph. And therefore died.

fub. Better die ten thousand deaths, Than wound my honour.

Syph. Rather say your love.

fub. Syphax, I have promised to preserve my temper; Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame

I long have stifled, and would fain conceal?

Syph. Believe me, prince, tho' hard to conquer love, 'Tis easy to divert and break its force.

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 flush'd with more exalted charms;
The sun that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and colour in their cheeks;
Were you with these my prince, you'd soon forget
The pale unripen'd beauties of the north.

Jub. 'Tis not the set of features, nor complexion,
The tincture of the skin, that I admire.
Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eyes and palls upon his sense.
The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex:
True, she is fair, (Oh how divinely fair!)
But still the lovely maid improves her charms
With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom,
And sanctity of manners. Cato's soul
Shines out in every thing she acts or speaks,
While winning mildness and attractive smiles
Dwell in her looks, and, with becoming grace,
Soften the rigour of her father's virtues.

Syph. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise.

T