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CATO,
ACT I.SCENE I.
Portius, Marcus.
Portius.
THE dawn is over-cast, the morning low'rs,
And 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 Cesar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havock does ambition make
Among your works!
Marc.Thy steddy temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cesar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy:
I'm tortur'd even to madness, when I think
On the proud victor; ev'ry time he's nam'd,
Pharsalia rises to my view!———I see
Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field,
Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter;
His horse's hoofs wet with patrician blood!
Oh, Portius, is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heav'n,
Red with uncommon wrath to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
Por.Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,
And mix'd with too much horror to be envy'd.
How does the lustre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
THE dawn is over-cast, the morning low'rs,
And 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 Cesar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havock does ambition make
Among your works!
Marc.Thy steddy temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cesar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy:
I'm tortur'd even to madness, when I think
On the proud victor; ev'ry time he's nam'd,
Pharsalia rises to my view!———I see
Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field,
Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter;
His horse's hoofs wet with patrician blood!
Oh, Portius, is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heav'n,
Red with uncommon wrath to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
Por.Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,
And mix'd with too much horror to be envy'd.
How does the lustre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
A 3
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