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PROLOGUE

TO ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO

1713.

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 wondered 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 show ;
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 confessed in human shape he draws;
What PLATO thought, and Godlike CATO was!
No common object to your sight 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 Senate laws;
What bosom beats not in his country's cause!
Who sees him act; but envies every deed!
Who hears him groan; and does not wish to bleed!
Even when proud CÆSAR, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,

Showed Rome, her CATO's figure drawn in State;
As her dead Father's reverend image past,
The pomp was darkened, and the day o'ercast!
The Triumph ceased! Tears gushed from every eye!
The World's great Victor passed unheeded by!
Her last good man, dejected Rome adored;
And honoured CÆSAR's, less than CATO's, sword!

Britons, attend! Be worth like this approved; And shew you have the virtue to be moved! With honest scorn, the first famed CATO viewed Rome learning arts from Greece; whom she subdued. Our Scene precariously subsists too long On French Translation, and Italian Song! Dare to have sense yourselves! Assert the Stage! Be justly warmed with your own native rage! Such Plays alone should please a British ear,

AS CATO's self had not disdained to hear.

THE SOLILOQUY OF CATO.

CATO, Solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture. In his hand, PLATO's book on The Immortality of the Soul. A drawn sword on a table by him.

IT must be so! PLATO, thou reason'st 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, th' unbounded, prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it! Here, will I hold! If there's a Power above us (And that there is, all Nature cries aloud

Through all her works!), he must delight in virtue! 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 them!

[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 wrecks of Matter, and the crush of Worlds!

What means this heaviness, that hangs upon me? This lethargy, that creeps through all my senses? 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 off'ring fit for Heaven! Let guilt, or fear, Disturb Man's rest: CATO knows neither of them! Indiff'rent in his choice, to sleep, or die.

WHY, DAMON! why, why, why so pressing?
The heart you beg 's not worth possessing!
Each look, each word, each smile, 's affected;
And inward charms are quite neglected!
Then scorn her! scorn her! foolish Swain;
And sigh no more, no more in vain!

Beauty's worthless! fading! flying!
Who would, for trifles, think of dying?
Who, for a face, a shape, would languish ;
And tell the brooks and groves his anguish,
Till She, till She thinks fit to prize him;
And all, and all beside, despise him?

Fix, fix your thoughts on what 's inviting! On what will never bear the slighting!

Wit and Virtue claim your duty!

They're much more worth than Gold and Beauty! To them, to them, your heart resign;

And you'll no more, no more repine!

WHEN DAPHNE first her Shepherd saw;
A sudden trembling seized her!
Honour, her wond'ring looks did awe;
She durst not view what pleased her!

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