SEMPRONIUS folus.
Curfe on the ftripling! how he apes his fire!
Ambitiously fententious!-but I wonder
Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian genius.
Is well difpos'd to mischief, were he prompt
And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd,
And every moment quickened to the course.
-Cato has us'd me ill; he has refused
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.
Befides, his baffled arms, and ruin'd cause,
Are bars to my ambition. Cæfar's favour,
That show'rs down greatness on his friends, will raise me
To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato,
I claim in my reward his captive daughter.
But Syphax comes!
SYPHAX.
Sempronius, all is ready,
I've founded my Numidians, man by man,
And find 'em ripe for a revolt: they all
Complain aloud of Cato's difcipline,
And wait but the command to change their mafter.
SEMPRONIUS.
Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste; Even whilft we speak, our conqueror comes on,
And gathers ground upon us every moment.
Alas! thou know'ft not Cæfar's active foul,
With what a dreadful course he rushes on
From war to war: in vain has nature form'd
Mountains and oceans to oppose his paffage ;
He bounds o'er all, victorious in his march:
The Alps and Pyreneans fink before him,
Through winds and waves and storms he works his way, Impatient for the battle: one day more
Will fet the victor thundering at our gates.
But tell me, haft thou yet drawn o'er
young Juba? That ftill would recommend thee more to Gafar,. And challenge better terms
He's loft, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full
Of Cato's virtues :- -but I'll try once more
(For every instant I expect him here)
If yet I can fubdue thofe ftubborn 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 sure to prefs upon him every motive.
Juba's furrender, fince his father's death,
Would give up Afric into Cafar's hands,
And make him Lord of half the burning zone.
But is it true, Sempronius, that your fenate.
Is call'd together? gods! thou must be cautious!
Cato has piercing eyes, and will difcern
Our frauds, unless thy're cover'd thick with art.
SEMPRONIUS.
Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal My thoughts in paffion ('tis the fureft way ;) I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country, And mouth at Cæfar 'till I shake the fenate. Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device,
A worn-out trick: would't thou be thought in earnest ? Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury!
In troth, thou'rt able to inftruct gray 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 difcontents, 'till they break out
Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cars.
Remember, Syphax, we must work in hafte:
O think what anxious moments pafs between
The birth of plots, and their laft fatal periods.
Oh! 'tis a dreadful interval of time,
Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death!
Destruction hangs on every word we speak,
On every thought, 'till the concluding stroke
Determines all, and clofes our defign.
SYPHAX folus.
I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason
This head-ftrong youth, and make him spurn at Cato.
The time is short, Cafar comes rufhing on us-
But hold! young Juba fees me, and approaches.
Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone. I have obferv'd of late they 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 ?
'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts,
Or carry fmiles and fun-fhine in my face,
When discontent fits heavy at my heart.
I have not yet fo much the Roman in me.
JUBA.
Why doft thou caft out such ungenerous terms
Against the Lords and fov'reigns of the world?
Doft thou not fee mankind fall down before them,
And own the force of their superior virtue ?
Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric,
Amidft our barren rocks, and burning fands,
That does not tremble at the Roman name?
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 fwifter to its mark,
Lanch'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, thefe are arts, my Prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.
Thefe 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 unpolifh'd world,
And lay it under the restraint 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 these,
Make human nature fhine, reform the foul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.
Patience, kind heavens !—excufe an old man's wramth. What are these wondrous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and this fmooth behaviour,
|