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such expressions?

Does not old Syphax follow you to war? What are his aims?—What is it he aspires to? Why does he load with darts

His trembling hand, and crush beneath a casque
His wrinkled brows?

Is it not this? To shed the slow remains,
His last poor ebb of blood, in your defence?
Juba. Syphax, no more: I would not hear
you talk.

Syph. Not hear me talk? What! when my faith to Juba,

My royal master's son, is called in question? My prince may strike me dead, and I'll be

dumb:

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His life, nay more, his honour, in your service? Juba. Syphax, I know thou lov'st me: but indeed

Thy zeal for Juba carried thee too far.
Honour's a sacred tie, the law of kings,
The noble mind's distinguishing perfection,
That aids and strengthens virtue where it
meets her,

And imitates her actions, where she is not;
It ought not to be sported with.

Syphax, thy hand: we'll mutually forget
The warmth of youth, and frowardness of age.
Thy prince esteems thy worth, and loves thy

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In

Cato discovered, in a thoughtful posture. his hand Plato's book on the Immortality of the Soul: a drawn sword on the table by him.

Cato. It must be so; Plato, thou reasonest well;

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread and inward horror Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! Thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!

The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before

me,

But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold: If there's a Power above us,

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And that which He delights in, must be happy. But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar:

I'm weary of conjectures:-This must end 'em.
(Laying his hand on his sword.)
Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me:
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me, I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her,
That my awakened soul may take her flight,
Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of 'em,
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.

Enter PORCIUS.

10 But ha! how's this? My son? Why this intrusion?

Were not my orders that I would be private?
Why am I disobeyed?

Por. Alas, my father!

What means this sword? this instrument of death?

Let me convey it hence.

(Takes up the sword.) Cato. Rash youth, forbear! Por. Oh, let the prayers, th' entreaties of your friends,

Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from you.

Cato. Would'st thou betray me? would'st thou give me up,

A slave, a captive, into Cæsar's hands?
Retire and learn obedience to a father;
Or know, young man,

Por. Look not thus sternly on me:

(Lays down the sword.) You know I'd rather die than disobey you. Cato. 'Tis well: again I'm master of myself. Now, Cæsar, let thy troops beset our gates, And bar each avenue; thy gathering fleets O'erspread the sea, and stop up every port; Cato shall open to himself a passage, And mock thy hopes.

Por. (Kneels.) O, sir, forgive your son, Whose grief hangs heavy on him! O my father!

How am I sure it is not the last time

I e'er shall call you so?-be not displeased,
O be not angry with me, whilst I weep,
And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you
To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul!
Cato. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful.
(Raises and embraces him.)
Weep not, my son: all will be well again:
The righteous gods, whom I have sought to
please,

Will succour Cato, and preserve his children.
Por. Your words give comfort to my droop-

ing heart.

Cato. Porcius, thou may'st rely upon my conduct:

Cato will never act what misbecomes him. But go, my son; take care that nought be wanting

Among thy father's friends; see them embarked;

And tell me if the winds and seas befriend 'em. My soul is quite weighed down with care, and asks

The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.

[Exit CATO. Por. My thoughts are more at ease; my heart revives.

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FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1586-1616) AND JOHN
FLETCHER (1576-1625)

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And Roman girls: :

Does this become a doer? are they such?... Where is your conquest then?

Why are your altars crowned with wreaths of flowers,

The beasts with gilt horns waiting for the fire?

The holy Druides composing songs

Of everlasting life to Victory?

Why are these triumphs, lady? for a Maygame?

For hunting a poor herd of wretched Romans?
Is it no more? shut up your temples, Britons,
And let the husbandman redeem his heifers;
Put out our holy fires; no timbrel ring;
Let's home, and sleep; for such great over-
throws

A candle burns too bright a sacrifice;
A glow-worm's tail too full a flame.
You say, I doat upon these Romans;-
Witness these wounds, I do; they were fairly
given :

I love an enemy, I was born a soldier;
And he that in the head of 's troop defies

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me:

And are not all these Roman? Ten struck battles

I sucked these honoured scars from, and all Roman :

Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches (When many a frozen storm sung through my cuirass,

And made it doubtful whether that or I Were the more stubborn metal,) have I wrought through,

And all to try these Romans. Ten times a night

I have swum the rivers, when the stars of Rome

Shot at me as I floated, and the billows Tumbled my watery ruins on my shoulders, Charging my battered sides with troops of

agues,

And still to try these Romans; whom I found...

As ready, and as full of that I brought,
(Which was not fear nor flight), as valiant,
As vigilant, as wise, to do and suffer,
Ever advanced as forward as the Britons;.

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These valiant and approved men of Britain,
Like boding owls, creep into tods of ivy,
And hoot their fears to one another nightly...
I fled too,

But not so fast; your jewel had been lost then,

Young Hengo there; he trashed me, Nennius: For when your fears outrun him, then stept I And in the head of all the Romans' fury

Took him, and, with my tough belt, to my back

I

buckled him-behind him, my sure
shield;-

And then I followed. If I say I fought
Five times in bringing off this bud of Britain,
I lie not, Nennius. Neither had ye heard
Me speak this, or ever seen the child more,
But that the son of Virtue, Pœnius,
Seeing me steer through all these storms of
danger,

My helm still on my head, my sword; my prow

Turned to my foe, my face, he cried out nobly,

'Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp off safely; Thy manly sword has ransomed thee: grow strong,

And let me meet thee once again in arms; Then if thou stand'st, thou art mine.' I took

his offer,

And here I am to honour him.

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ACT II.-Scene 1.

THE FALSE ONE

PHOTINUS, CÆSAR, SCEVA, ANTONY.

[Ptolemy, king of Egypt, having secured the head of Pompey, comes with his friends Achoreus and Photinus to present it to Cæsar, as a means of gaining his favour.)

Pho. Do not shun me, Cæsar. From kingly Ptolemy I bring this present, The crown and sweat of thy Pharsalian labour, The goal and mark of high ambitious honour. Before, thy victory had no name, Cæsar, Thy travail and thy loss of blood, no recompense;

Thou dreamedst of being worthy, and of war, And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers: Here they take life; here they inherit honour, Grow fixed, and shoot up everlasting triumphs. Take it, and look upon thy humble servant, With noble eyes look on the princely Ptolemy, That offers with this head, most mighty Cæsar, What thou wouldst once have given for't, all Egypt.

Casar. O Sceva, Sceva, see that head! see, captains,

The head of godlike Pompey!

Sce. He was basely ruined;

But let the gods be grieved that suffered it ;
And be you Cæsar.

Casar. O thou conqueror,

Thou glory of the world once, now the pity; Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus?

What poor fate followed thee, and plucked thee

on

To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian?
The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger,
That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness,
Nor worthy circumstance showed what a man
was?

Hear me, great Pompey! If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee! 30 Thou'st most unnobly robbed me of my victory, My love and mercy.

Ant. O, how brave these tears show!
How excellent is sorrow in an enemy!

Sce. Glory appears not greater than this
goodness.

Casar. Egyptians, dare ye think your
high pyramides,

Built to outdure the sun, as you suppose,
Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes,
Are monuments fit for him? No, brood of

Nilus,

Nothing can cover his high fame, but heaven;
No pyramids set off his memories,
But the eternal substance of his greatness,
To which I leave him. Take the head away,
And, with the body, give it noble burial :
Your earth shall now be blest to hold a
Roman,

Whose braveries all the world's earth cannot balance.

Sce. (Aside.) If thou be'st thus loving, I shall honour thee:

But great men may dissemble, 'tis held possible,

And be right glad of what they seem to weep for;

There 're such kind of philosophers. do I wonder

Now

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