Chapters 5
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1 01 - Act 1 26:11
Dramatis Personae. Cato. Read by Greg Giordano. Porteus. Read by Adrian Stevens. Marcus, read by Thomas Peter. Sempronius, read by Inkel. Juba, read by Jim Lark. Civex, read by Caveat. Lucius, read by Alan Mapstone. Decius, read by Kiri Adams. Your book boys. Lucia, read by Sonia. Marcia, read by Anna Maria. First Leader of the Mutiny, read by David Purdy. Stage Directions, read by Todd. Scene, The Governor's Palace in Utica. Cato, Act the First, Scene One, A Hall. Enter Porteus and Marcus. The dawn is overcast. The morning lowers, and heavily in clouds brings on the day, the great, the important day, big with 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 Caesar has ravaged more than half the globe and sees mankind grown thin by his destructive sword. Should he go farther, numbers would be wanting to form new battles, and support his crimes. Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make among your works? Thy steady temper, Porches, can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Caesar in the calm life of mild philosophy. I'm tortured into madness when I think on the proud victor. Every time he's named, for Salia rises to my view. I see the insulting tyrant prancing over the field, strewed with Rome's citizens, and drenched in slaughter, his horse's hoofs wet with patrician blood. Oh, Porteus, is there not some chosen curse, some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
Believe me, Marcus, tis an impious greatness. And mixed with too much horror to be envied, how does the luster of our father's actions, through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, break out and burn with more triumphant brightness? His sufferings shine and spread a glory round him. Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause of honor, virtue, liberty, and Rome. His sword ne'er fell, but on the guilty head, oppression, tyranny, and power usurped, draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them. Who knows not this? But what can Cato do against a world, a base degenerate world, that courts the yoke and bows the neck of Caesar? Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms the poor epitome of Roman greatness. And covered with Numidian guards, directs a feeble army at an empty Senate, remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
By heaven, such virtue joined with such success distracts my very soul. Our father's fortune would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts. Remember what our father oft has told us. The ways of heaven are dark and intricate, puzzled in mazes. And perplexed with errors. Our understanding traces them in vain, lost and bewildered in the fruitless search, nor sees with how much art the windings run, nor where the regular confusion ends. These are suggestions of a mind at ease. O Porteus, didst thou taste but half the griefs that wring my soul? Thou couldst not talk thus coldly. Passion, unpitied, and successless love, Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate my other griefs. Were but my Lucio kind.
Porteus aside. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy rival, But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. Behold young Juba. The Numidian Prince, with how much care he forms himself to glory and breaks the fierceness of his native temper to copy out our father's bright example. He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her. His eyes, his looks, his actions all betray it, but still the smothered fondness burns within him when most it swells and labors for a vent. The sense of honour and desire of fame drive the big passion back into his heart. What? Shall an African, shall Juba's heir, reproach great Cato's son and show the world a virtue wanting in a Roman soul? Porteous no more. Your words leave stings behind them.
Whene'er did Jubal or did Porteous show a virtue that has cast me at a distance and thrown me out in the pursuit of honour? Marcus, I know thy generous temper well. Fling but the appearance of dishonour on it, its trait takes fire and mounts into a blaze. A brother's sufferings claim a brother's pity. Heaven knows. I pity thee. Behold my eyes, even whilst I speak, do they not swim in tears? Were but my heart as naked to thy view, Marcus would see it bleed in his behalf. Why then dost treat me with rebukes, instead of kind, condoling cares and friendly sorrow? O, Marcus, did I know the way to ease thy troubled heart and mitigate thy pains? Marcus. Believe me, I could die to do it. Thou best of brothers, and thou best of friends!
Pardon a weak distempered soul that swells with sudden gusts and sinks as soon in calms the sport of passions. But Sempronius comes. He must not find the softness hanging on me. Conspiracies no sooner should be formed than executed. What means Porteous here? I like not that cold youth. I must assemble, and speak a language foreign to my heart. Good morrow, Porteous! Let us once embrace. Once more embrace, while yet we both are free. Tomorrow should we thus express our friendship. Each might receive a slave into his arms. This sun, perhaps this morning's sun's the last day, shall rise on Roman liberty. My father has this morning called together to this poor hall his little Roman Senate, the leavings of Pharsalia, to consult if he can yet oppose the mighty torrent that bears down Rome and all her gods before it, or must at length give up the world to Caesar.
Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome can raise our Senate more than Cato's presence. His virtues render our assembly awful. They strike with something like religious fear, and make even Caesar tremble at the head of armies flushed with conquest. Oh, my Portius! Could I but call that wondrous man my father? Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious to thy friend's vows, I might be blessed indeed! Alas, Sempronius, wouldst thou talk of love to Marcia whilst her father's life's in danger? Thou mightest as well court the pale, trembling Vestal, when she beholds the holy flame expiring. The more I see the wonders of thy race, the more I am charmed. Thou must take heed, my Porteous. The world has all its eyes on Cato's son.
Thy father's merit sets thee up to view, and shows thee in the fairest point of light, to make thy virtues or thy faults conspicuous. Well, dost thou seem to check my lingering here, in this important hour? Ask straightaway, and while the fathers of the Senate meet in close debate to weigh the events of war, I'll animate the soldiers' drooping courage with love of freedom and contempt of life. I'll thunder in their ears their country's cause, and try to rouse up all that's Roman in them. Tis not in mortals to command success, but we'll do more. Sempronius. We'll deserve it. Curse on that stripling! How he apes his sire! Ambiciously sententious! But I wonder old Cyphox comes not. His Numidian genius is well disposed to mischief, for he prompt and eager on it, but he must be spurred, and every moment quickened to the course.
Cato has used me ill. He has refused his daughter Marsha to my ardent vows. Besides, his baffled arms and ruined cause are bars to my ambition. Caesar's favour. It showers down greatness on his friends, will raise me to Rome's finest honours. If I give up Cato, I claim in my reward his captive daughter. But Syphax comes. Enter Syphax. Sempronius, all is ready. I've sounded my Numidians, man by man, and find them ripe for a revolt. They all complain aloud of Cato's discipline, and wait but the command to change their master. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste. Even while we speak our conqueror comes on, and gathers ground upon us every moment. Alas! Thou know'st not Caesar's active soul.
With what a dreadful course he rushes on from war to war, in vain as nature formed mountains and oceans to pose his passage. He bounds our all. One day more, we'll set the victor thundering at our gates. But tell me, hast thou yet drawn o'er, young Juba, that still would recommend thee more to Caesar and challenge better terms? Alas! He's lost. He's lost 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 subdue those stubborn principles of faith and honour, and I know not what that have corrupted his Numidian temper, and struck the infection into all his soul." Be sure to press upon him every motive. Jupiter's surrender, since his father's death, would give up Afrik into Caesar's hands, and make him lord of half the burning zone.
Is it true, Sempronius, that your Senate is called together? Gods, thou must be cautious. Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern our frauds unless they are covered thick with art. Let me alone, good Syphax. I'll conceal my thoughts in passion. Tis the surest way. I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country, and mouth at Caesar till I shake the Senate. Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device, a worn-out trick. Wouldst thou be thought in earnest? Clothe thy feigned zeal and rage in fire and fury. Entroth the heart able to instruct grey hairs and teach the wily African deceit. Once more be sure to try thy skill on Juba. Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste. Oh, think what anxious moments pass between the birth of plots in their last fatal periods.
Oh, tis a dreadful interval of time, filled up with horror all, and big with death. Destruction hangs on every word we speak, and every thought, till the concluding stroke determines all, and closes our design. Exit. I'll try, if yet I can reduce to reason this headstrong youth, and make him spurn at Cato. The time is short. Caesar comes rushing on us. But hold, young Juba sees me and approaches. Entered Juba. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone. I've observed of late thy looks are fallen, or cast 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 smiles and sunshine in my face when discontent sits heavy at my heart.
I have not yet so much the Roman in me. 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 Africa, amidst our barren rocks and burning sands, that does not tremble at the Roman name?
Where's the work that sets these people up? Above your own, Namilia's tawny sons. Do they, with tougher sinews, bend the bow? Or flies the javelin swifter to its mark, launched from 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 the arts, my prince, in which your Zama does not stoop to Rome. These all are virtues of a meaner rank, perfections that are placed in bones and nerves. A Roman soul is bent on higher views. Turn up thy eyes to Cato. There mayest thou see to what a godlike height the Roman virtues lift up. Mortal man. While good and just and anxious for his friends, he still severely bent against himself.
And when his fortune sets before him all the pomps and pleasures that his soul can wish, his rigid virtue will accept of none. Believe me, Prince, there's not an African that traverses our vast Numidian deserts in quest of prey and lives upon his bow. But better practices those boasted virtues. Coarse are his meals. The fortune of the chase, amidst the running stream, he slicks 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 his wanted game. And if the following day he chanced to find a new repast, or an untasted spring, blesses his stars and thinks it luxury. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern what virtues grow from ignorance and choice, nor how the hero differs from the brute.
Where shall we find the man that bears affliction, great and majestic, in his griefs like Cato? How does he rise against a load of woes and thank the gods that threw the weight upon him? 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. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh? My father's name brings tears into my eyes. Oh, that you prophet! By your father's ills. What wouldst thou have me do? Abandon Cato. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan by such a loss. Ay, there's the tie that binds you. You long to call him father.
Marcia's charms works in your heart unseed and plead for Cato. No wonder you are deaf to all I say. Syphax. Your zeal becomes importunate. I've hitherto permitted it to rave and talk at large, but learned to keep it in, lest it should take more freedom than I'll give it. Sir, your great father never used me thus. Alas, he's dead. But can you e'er forget the tender sorrows and repeated blessings which you drew from him in your last farewell? The good old king. At parting, wrung my hand. His eyes brimmed full of tears. Then, sighing, cried, Prithee be careful of my son. His grief swelled up so high he could not utter more. Alas! thy story melts away my soul. That best of fathers, how shall I discharge the gratitude and duty that I owe him?
By laying up his counsels in your heart. His counsels bade me yield to thy direction. Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms, vent all thy passion, and outstand its shock, calm and unruffled as a summer's sea, when not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface. Alas, my prince, I'd guide you to your safety. I do believe thou wouldst. But tell me how. Fly from the fate that follows Caesar's foes. My father scorned to do it. And therefore died. Better to die ten thousand, thousand deaths than wound my honor. Rather say, your love. Syphax, I've promised to preserve my temper. Why wilt thou urge me to confess? A flame I long have stifled, and would fain conceal. Believe me, Prince, though hard to conquer love, it is easy to divert and break its force.
Absence might curate, or a second mistress light up another flame, and put out this. The glowing dames of Zama's royal court have faces flushed with more exalted charms. Were you with these, my Prince, you'd soon forget the pale, unripened beauties of the North. Tis not a set of features or complexion, the tincture of a skin that I admire. Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, fades in his eye and palls upon the 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 everything she acts or speaks, while winning mildness and attractive smiles dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace soften the rigor of her father's virtue.
How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise? But on my knees, I beg you, would consider. Ah, Syphax, is't not she? She moves this way, and with her, Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter. My heart beats thick. I prithee, Syphax, leave me. Ten thousand curses. Fasten on them both. Now will the woman with a single glance undo what I've been laboring all this while. Exit Syphax. Enter Marcia and Lucia. Hail, charming maid! How does thy beauty smooth the face of war, and make even horror smile? At sight of thee my heart shakes off its sorrows. I feel a dawn of joy. Break in upon me, and for a while forget the approach of Caesar. I should be grieved, young prince, to think my presence unbent your thoughts and slackened them to arms, while warm with slaughter our victorious foe threatens aloud and calls you to the field.
O, Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns and gentle wishes followed me to battle. The thought will give New vigor to my arm, and strength and weight to my descending sword, and drive it in a tempest on the foe. My prayers and wishes always shall attend the friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue and men approved by the gods and Cato. That Juba may deserve thy pious cares, I'll gaze forever on thy godlike Father, transplanting one by one into my life. His bright perfections, till I shine like him. My father never at a time like this would lay out his great soul in words and waste such precious moments. Thy reproofs are just, thou virtuous maid. I'll hasten to my troops and fire their languid souls with Cato's virtue.
Ife'er I lead them to the field, when all the war Shall stand ranged in its just array and dreadful pomp. Then will I think on thee, O lovely maid, then will I think on thee, and in the shock of charging hosts remember what glorious deeds should grace the man who hopes for Marcia's love. Exit Juba. Marcia, you're too severe. How could you chide the young, good-natured prince and drive him from you with so stern an air? A prince that loves and dotes on you to death. Tis therefore, Lucia, that I chide him from me. His air, his voice, his looks, and honest soul speak all so movingly in his behalf I dare not trust myself to hear him talk. Why will you fight against so sweet a passion and steal your heart to such a world of charms?
How, Lucia? Wouldst thou have me sink away in pleasing dreams and lose myself in love, when every moment Cato's life's at stake? Caesar comes armed with terror and revenge, and aims his thunder at my father's head. Should not the sad occasion swallow up my other cares? Why have I not this constancy of mind, who have so many griefs to try its force? Sure, nature formed me of her softest mould. Lucia, disburden all thy cares on me, and let me share thy most retired distress. Tell me, who raises up this conflict in thee? I need not blush to name them when I tell thee they're Marcius brothers and the sons of Cato. They both behold thee with their sister's eyes, and often have revealed their passion to me.
But tell me, which of them is Lucia's choice? Suppose t'were Portius, could you blame my choice? O Portius, thou hast stolen away my soul. Marcus is overwarm. His fond complaints have so much earnestness and passion in them, I hear him with a secret kind of horror, and tremble at his vehemence of temper. Alas, poor youth, how will thy coldness raise tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom? I dread the consequence. You seem to plead against your brother Portius. Heaven forbid! Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover, the same compassion would have fallen on him. Waspher a virgin love distressed like mine, Portius himself oft falls in tears before me as if he mourned his rival's ill success.
Then bids me hide the motions of my heart, nor show which way it turns, so much he fears the sad effect that it will have on Marcus. Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our sorrows, but to the gods submit the event of things. Our lives, discolored with our present woes, may still grow bright, and smile with happier hours. So the pure, limpid stream, when foul with stains of rushing torrets and descending rains, works itself clear and, as it runs, refines, till by degrees the floating mirror shines, reflects each flower that on the border grows, and a new heaven in its fair bosom shows.
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2 02 - Act 2 27:20
Cato, Act II, Scene 1. The Senate sitting. Flourish. Enter Cato. Fathers. We once again are met in council. Caesar's approach has summoned us together, and Rome attends her fate from our resolves. How shall we treat this bold, aspiring man? Success still follows him and backs his crimes. Varsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since received his yoke, and the whole Nile. is Caesar's. Why should I mention Juba's overthrow, and Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands still smoke with blood. "'Tis time we should decree what course to take. Our foe advances on us, and envies us even Libya's sultry deserts. Fathers, pronounce your thoughts. Are they still fixed to hold it out? And fight it to the last, for are your hearts subdued at length and wrought by time and ill success to a submission.
Sempronius, speak. Gods! Can a Roman Senate long debate which of the two to choose, slavery or death? No! Let us rise at once, gird on our swords, and at the head of our remaining troops attack the foe, break through the thick array of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, may reach his heart and free the world from bondage. Rise, fathers, rise, tis Rome demands your help. Rise and revenge her slaughtered citizens, or share their fate. To battle! Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, and Scypio's ghost walks unavenged amongst us. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason. True fortitude is seen in great exploits, that justice warrants and that wisdom guides.
All else is towering frenzy and distraction. Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion. Lucius, my thoughts, I must confess, are turned on peace. Already have our quarrels filled the world with widows and with orphans. Scythia mourns our guilty wars, and Earth's remotest regions lie half-unpeopled by the feuds of Rome. Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind. Already have we shown our love to Rome. Now let us show submission to the gods. We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, but free the Commonwealth. When this end fails, arms have no further use. Our country's cause that drew our swords now wrests them from our hands, and bids us not delight in Roman blood unprofitably shed.
What men could do is done already. Heaven and Earth will witness, if Rome must fall, that we are innocent. Let us appear nor rash nor diffident. Immoderate valor swells into a fault, and fear, admitted into public councils, betrays like treason. Let us shun them both. Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs are grown thus desperate. We have bulwarks round us. Within our walls are troops inured to toil. In Africa's heat, and seasoned to the sun, Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us, ready to rise at its young prince's call. While there is hope, do not distrust the gods, but wait at least till Caesar's near approach force us to yield. "'T'will never be too late to sue for chains and own a conqueror.
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time? No, let us draw her term of freedom out in its full length and spin it to the last. So shall we gain still one day's liberty, and let me perish, but in Cato's judgment A day, an hour of virtuous liberty, is worth a whole eternity in bondage. Enter Marcus. Fathers, this moment as I watched the gate lodged on my post, a herald is arrived from Caesar's camp, and with him comes old Decius, the Roman knight. He carries in his looks in patience and demands to speak with Cato. By your permission, fathers. Bid him enter.
Decius was once my friend, but other prospects have loosed those ties and bound him fast to Caesar. His message may determine our resolves. Caesar sends health to Cato. Could he send it to Cato's slaughtered friends? It would be welcome. Are not your orders to address the Senate? My business is with Cato. Caesar sees the straits to which you're driven, and as he knows Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome. Would he save Cato? Bid him spare his country? Tell your dictator this, and tell him, Cato disdains a life which she has power to offer. Rome and her senators submit to Caesar. Her generals and her consuls are no more, who checked his conquests and denied his triumphs.
Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend? These very reasons thou hast urged forbid it. Cato, I've orders to expostulate and reason with you, as from friend to friend. Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head, and threatens every hour to burst upon it. Still may you stand high in your country's honors. Do but comply and make your peace with Caesar. Rome will rejoice and cast its eyes on Cato as the second of mankind. No more. I must not think of life on such conditions. Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues, and therefore sets this value on your life. Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship, and name your terms. Bid him disband his legions, restore the commonwealth to liberty, submit his actions to the public censure, and stand the judgment of a Roman Senate.
Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. Cato. The world talks loudly of your wisdom. Nay, more, though Cato's voice was ne'er employed to clear the guilty and to varnish crimes. Myself will mount the rostrum in his favor, and strive to gain his pardon from the people. A style like this becomes a conqueror. Decius, a style like this Becomes a Roman. What is a Roman that is Caesar's foe? Greater than Caesar. He's a friend to virtue. Consider, Cato, you're in Utica, and at the head of your own little Senate. You do not thunder in the capital with all the mouths of Rome to second you. Let him consider that who drives us hither. Tis Caesar's sword has made Rome's Senate little, and thinned its ranks.
Alas, thy dazzled eye beholds this man in a false, glaring light, which conquest and success have thrown upon him. Didst thou but view him right? Thou'st see him black with murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes that strike my soul with horror. But to name them. I know thou look'st on me as on a wretch, beset with ills and covered with misfortunes. But by the gods I swear millions of worlds should never buy me to be like that Caesar. Does Cato send this answer back to Caesar for all his generous cares and proffered friendship? His cares for me are insolent and vain, presumptuous man! The gods take care of Cato. Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul? Bid him employ his care for these, my friends, and make good use of his ill-gotten power by sheltering men much better than himself.
Your high, unconquered heart makes you forget you are a man. You rush on your destruction. But I have done. When I relate hereafter the tale of this unhappy embassy, all Rome will be in tears. Exit Decius. Coto, we thank thee. The mighty genius of immortal Rome speaks in thy voice. They soal with liberty. He's all shrink to hear the words thou utterest, and shudder at the midst of all his conquests. The Senate owes its gratitude to Cato, who with so great a soul consults its safety and guards our lives while he neglects his own. Sopronis gives no thanks on this account. Lucius seems fond of life, but what is life? Tis not to stalk about and draw fresh air from time to time or gaze upon the sun.
Tis to be free. When liberty is gone, life grows insipid. Come, no more, Sempronius. All here are friends to Rome and to each other. Let us not weaken still the weaker side by our divisions. Cato, my resentments are sacrificed to Rome. I stand reproved. Fathers! "'Tis time you come to a resolve." Cato, we all go in your opinion. Caesar's behavior has convinced the Senate we ought to hold it out till terms arrive. We ought to hold it out till death, but, Cato, my private voice is drowned amidst the Senate. Then let us rise, my friends, and strive to fill this little interval. This pause of life, while yet our liberty and fates are doubtful, with resolution, friendship, Roman bravery, and all the virtues we can crowd into it, that heaven may say it ought to be prolonged.
Fathers, farewell. The young Numidian prince comes forward and expects to know our counsels. Exigent Senators. Enter Juba. Juba, the Roman Senate has resolved, till time give better prospects still to keep the sword unsheathed and turn its edge on Caesar. The resolution fits a Roman Senate. But Cato, lend me for a while thy patience, and condescender hear a young man speak. My father, When some days before his death he ordered me to march for Utica, Alas! I thought not then his death so near, Wept o'er me, pressed me in his aged arms, And as his griefs gave way, My son, said he, whatever fortune shall befall thy father, Be Cato's friend. He'll train thee up to great and virtuous deeds. Do but observe him well.
Thou'lt shun misfortunes, or thou'lt learn to bear them. Juba, thy father was a worthy prince, and merited, alas, a better fate, but heaven thought otherwise. My father's fate, in spite of all the fortitude that shines before my face in Cato's great example, subdues my soul and fills my eyes with tears. It is an honest sorrow, and becomes thee. My father drew respect from foreign climes. The kings of Africa sought him for their friend, kings far remote. That rule, as fame reports, behind the hidden sources of the Nile, in distant worlds, on t'other side the sun, oft have their black ambassadors appeared, loaden with gifts, and filled the courts of Zama. I am no stranger to thy father's greatness.
I would not boast the greatness of my father, but point out new alliances to Cato. Had we not better leave this Utica to arm Numidia in our cause, and court the assistance of my father's powerful friends? Did they know Cato? Our remotest kings would pour embattled multitudes about him. Their swarthy hosts would darken all our plains, doubling the native horror of the war, and making death more grim. And canst thou think Cato will fly before the sword of Caesar, reduced, like Hannibal, to seek relief from court to court, and wander up and down a vagabond in Afrique? Cato, perhaps, I'm too officious, but my forward cares would fain preserve a life of so much value. My heart is wounded when I see such virtue afflicted by the weight of such misfortunes.
Thy nobleness of soul obliges me. But know, young prince, that valor soars above what the world calls misfortune and affliction. These are not ills, else would they never fall on heaven's first favorites and the best of men. The gods in bounty work up storms about us, That give mankind occasion to exert their hidden strength, and throw out into practice virtues which shun the day, and lie concealed in the smooth seasons and the calms of life. I'm charmed whene'er thou talk'st. I pant for virtue, and all my soul endeavors at perfection. Doest thou love watchings? Abstinence and toil, laborious virtues all. Learn them from Cato. Success and fortune must thou learn from Caesar. The best good fortune that can fall on Juba, the whole success at which my heart aspires, depends on Cato.
What does Juba say? Thy words confound me. I would fain retract them. Give them me back again. They aimed at nothing. Tell me thy wish, young prince. Make not my ear a stranger to thy thoughts. Oh, they're extravagant! Still let me hide them. What can Juba ask that Cato will refuse? I fear to name it Marcia. Inherits all her father's virtues. What wouldst thou say? Cato, thou hast a daughter. Adieu, young prince. I would not hear a word should lessen thee in my esteem. Remember, the hand of fate is over us, and heaven exacts severity from all our thoughts. It is not now a time to talk of aught, but chains or conquest, liberty or death. Exit. Enter Syphax. How's this, my prince? What, covered with confusion?
You look as if yon stern philosopher had just now chide you. Syphax, I'm undone. I know it well. Gato thinks meanly of me. And so will all mankind. I've opened to him the weakness of my soul, my love for Marcia. Cato's a proper person to entrust a love tale with. Oh, I could pierce my heart, my foolish heart. Alas, my prince, how are you changed of late? I've known young Juba rise before the sun, to beat the thicket where the tiger slept, or seek the lion in his dreadful haunts. I've seen you, even in the Libyan dog days, hunt him down, then charge him closer, and, stooping from your horse, Rivet the panting savage to the ground. Brithy no more. How would the old king smile? To see you weigh the paws, when tipped with gold, and throw the shaggy spoils about your shoulders.
Side facts this old man's talk, though honey flowed in every word, would now lose all its sweetness. Cato's displeased and Marcia lost for ever. Young prince, I yet could give you good advice. Marcia might still be yours. As how, dear Syphax. Juba commands Numidia's hardy troops, mounted on steeds unused to the restraint of curbs or bits, and fleeter than the winds. Give but the word. We snatch this damsel up and bear her off. Can such dishonest thoughts rise up in man, which thou seduce my youth to do an act that would destroy mine honor? Gods, I could tear my hair to hear you talk. On is a fine imaginary notion that draws in raw and inexperienced men to real mischiefs while they hunt a shadow.
Which thou degrade thy prince into a ruffian? The boasted ancestors of these great men, whose virtues you admire were all such ruffians, this dread of nations, this almighty Rome. That comprehends in her wide empire's bounds all under heaven, was founded on a rape. Your Scipios, Caesars, Pompeys, and your Catoes, the gods on earth, are all the spurious blood of violated maids of ravished Sabines. Syphax, I fear that hoary head of thine abounds too much in our Numidian wilds. Indeed, my prince, you ought to know the world. If knowledge of the world makes men perfidious, may Juba ever live in ignorance. Go, go, you're young. Gods, must I tamely bear this arrogance? Unanswered, thou art a traitor, a false old traitor.
I've gone too far. Cato shall know the baseness of thy soul.
I must appease this storm, or perish in it. Young Prince, behold these locks that are grown white beneath the helmet in your father's battles. Those locks shall ne'er protect thy insolence. Must one rash word of the infirmity of age throw down the merit of my better years? This the reward of a whole life of service?
Curse on the boy, how steadily he hears me. Side facts no more. I would not hear you talk. Not hear me talk? What, when my fate to Juba, my royal master's son, is called in question? My prince may strike me dead, and I'll be dumb, but whilst I live I must not hold my tongue and languish out old age in his displeasure. Thou knowest the way too well into my heart, I do believe thee loyal to thy prince. What great instance can I give? I've offered to do an action which my soul abhors, and gain you whom you love at any price. Was this thy motive? I've been too hasty. And tis for this my prince has called me traitor? Sure thou mistakest, I did not call thee so. You did indeed, my prince, you called me traitor.
Nay, further, threaten you'd complain to Cato. Of what, my prince, would you complain to Cato? That Cephax loves you, and would sacrifice his life? Nay more, his honour in your service. Sifax, I know thou lovest me, but indeed thy zeal for Juba carried thee too far. Honours 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. Believe me, Prince, you make old Sifax weep to hear you talk. But tis with tears of joy. If e'er your father's crown adorn your brows, Numidia will be blessed by Cato's lectures. Syphax, thy hand, we'll mutually forget the warmth of youth and forwardness of age.
Thy prince esteems thy worth and loves thy person. If e'er the sceptre come into my hand, Syphax shall stand the second in my kingdom. Why will you overwhelm my age with kindness? My joys grow burdensome. I shan't support it. Syphag's farewell. I'll Hansen try to find some blessed occasion that may set me right in Cato's thoughts. I'd rather have that man approve my deeds than worlds for my admirers. Exit. Young men soon give and soon forget affronts. Old age is slow in both. A false old traitor. These words, rash boy, may chance to cost thee dear. My heart had still some foolish fondness for thee, but hence tis gone. I give it to the winds. Caesar, I am wholly thine. Enter Sempronius. All hail Sempronius!
Well, Cato's senate is resolved to wait, the fury of a siege before it yields. Syphax, we both were on the verge of fate. Lucius declared for peace, and terms were offered to Cato by a messenger from Caesar. Should they submit ere our designs are ripe, we both must perish in the common wreck, lost in the general, undistinguished ruin. But how stands Cato? Thou hast seen Mount Atlas, whilst storms and tempests thunder on its brows, and oceans break their billows at its feet, it stands unmoved, and glories in its height. Such is that haughty man, his towering soul, miss all the shocks and injuries of fortune, rides his superior and looks down on Caesar. But what's this messenger? I've practiced with him, and found a means to let the victor know that Syphax and Semporius are his friends.
But let me now examine in my turn. Is Juba fixed? Yes, but it is to Cato. I've tried the force of every reason on him. Soothed and caressed, been angry, soothed again, laid safety, life, and interest in his sight. But all are vain. He scorns them all for Cato. Come, tis no matter. We shall do without him. He'll make a pretty figure in a triumph. And served a trip before the victor's chariot. Cyphex, I now may hope thou hast forsook thy juba's cause, and wishest Marsha mine. May she be thine as fast as thou wouldst have her. Cyphex, I love that woman. Though I curse her and myself, yet, spite of me, I love her. Make Cato sure, and give up Utica. Caesar will ne'er refuse thee such a trifle. But are thy troops prepared for a revolt?
Does the sedition catch from man to man and run among the ranks? All. All is ready. The factious leaders are our friends, that spread murmurs and discontents among the soldiers. They count their toilsome marches, long fatigues, unusual fastings, and will hear no more this medley of philosophy and war. Within an hour they'll storm the Senate House. Meanwhile, I'll drop my Numidian troops within the square to exercise their arms, and, as I see occasion, favour thee. I laugh to see how your unshaken Cato will look aghast, while unforeseen destruction pours in upon him thus from every side. So where our wide Numinian wastes extend, sudden though the imperious hurricanes descend, wheel through the air encircling Eddie's play, tear up the sand and sweep whole plains away.
The hapless traveller, with wild surprise, sees the dry desert all around him rise. And smothered in the dusty whirlwind, dies. Exeunt. End of Act Two.
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3 03 - Act 3 18:08
Cato, Act III. Scene I, A Chamber. Enter Marcus and Porteus. Thanks to my stars, I have not arranged about the wilds of life ere I could find a friend. Nature first pointed out my portages to me, and early taught me by a secret force to love thy person ere I knew thy merit, till what was instinct grew up into friendship. Marcus, the friendships of the world are oft confederacies in vice or leagues of pleasure. Ours has severest virtue for its basis. And such a friendship ends not but with life. Porteous, thou know'st my soul in all its weakness. Then, prithee, spare me on its tender side. Indulge me but in love. My other passions shall rise and fall by virtue's nicest rules. When love's well-timed, tis not a fault to love.
The strong, the brave, the virtuous, and the wise. Sink in the soft captivity together. Alas, thou toxt like one that never felt the impatient throbs and loggings of a soul that pants and reaches after distant good. A lover does not live by vulgar time. Believe me, Porges, in my Lucia's absence life hangs upon me and becomes a burden. And yet, when I behold the charming maid, I am ten times more undone, while hope and fear and grief and rage and love rise up at once and with variety of pain distract me. What can thy Porteus do to give thee help? Porteus, thou oft enjoy'st the Fair One's presence. Then undertake my cause and plead it to her with all the strength and heat of eloquence for eternal love and friendship can inspire.
Tell her thy brother languishes to death, and fades away, and willers in his bloom, that he forgets his sleep, and loathes his food, that youth, and health, and war are joyless to him. Describe his anxious days, and restless nights, and all the torments that thou seest me suffer. Marcus, I beg thee, give me not an office that suits me so ill. Thou knowest my temper. Wilt thou behold me sinking in my woes, and wilt thou not reach out a friendly arm to raise me from amidst this plunge of sorrows? Marcus, thou canst not ask what I'd refuse. But here, believe me, I've a thousand reasons. I know thou say my passion's out of season, that Cato's great example and misfortune should both conspire to drive it from my thoughts.
But what's all this to one that loves like me? Oh, Porteous! Porteus, from my soul I wish thou didst but know thyself what is to love, that wouldst thou pity and assist thy brother.
What should I do? If I disclose my passion, our friendship's at an end. If I conceal it, the world will call me false to a friend and brother. But see where Lucia at her wanted hour, amid the cool of yon high marble arch, enjoys a noonday breeze. Observe her, Porteus, that face, that shape, those eyes, that heaven of beauty. Observe her well, and blame me if thou canst. She sees us, and advances. I'll withdraw, and leave you for a while. Remember her, Porteus. Thy brother's life depends upon thy tongue. Exit. Enter Lucia. Did not I see your brother Marcus here? Why did he fly the place and shun my presence? Oh, Lucia, language is too faint to show his rage of love. It preys upon his life. He pines.
He sickens. He despairs. He dies. How wilt thou guard thy honor in the shock of love and friendship? Think, betimes, my Portius, think how the nuptial tie that might ensure our mutual bliss would raise to such a height thy brother's griefs as might, perhaps, destroy him. Alas, poor youth, what dost thou think, my Lucia? His generous, open, undesigning heart has begged his rival to solicit for him. Then do not strike him dead with a denial. No, Portius, no. I see thy sister's tears, thy father's anguish, and thy brother's death in the pursuit of our ill-fated loves. And, Portius, here I swear, to heaven I swear, to heaven and all the powers that judge mankind, never to mix my plighted hands with thine, while such a cloud of mischief hangs upon us.
But to forget our loves, and drive thee out from all my thoughts, as far as I am able. What hast thou said? I'm thunderstruck. Recall those hasty words, or I am lost for ever. Has not the vow already passed my lips? The gods have heard it, and this shield in heaven. May all the vengeance that was ever poured on perjured heads overwhelm me if I break it. Fixed in astonishment, I gaze upon thee, like one just blasted by a stroke from heaven, who pants for breath and stiffens, yet alive, in dreadful looks, a monument of wrath. Think, Porteous, think thou seest thy dying brother stabbed at his heart, and all besmeared with blood, storming at heaven and thee. Thy awful sire sternly demands the cause.
The accursed cause that robs him of his son. Poor Marcia trembles, then tears her hair, and frantic in her griefs calls out on Lucia. What could Lucia answer, or how stand up in such a scene of sorrow? To my confusion and eternal grief, I must approve the sentence that destroys me. Porteous, no more. Thy words shoot through my heart. Melt my resolves and turn me all to love. Why are those tears of fondness in thy eyes? Why heaves thy heart? Why swells thy soul with sorrow? It softens me too much. Farewell, my Porteous. Farewell, though death is in the word. Forever. Stay. Lucia, stay. What dost thou say? Forever? Thou must not go. My soul still hovers o'er thee, and can't get loose. If the firm portions shake to hear of parting, think what Lucia suffers.
Tis true, unruffled and serene. I have met the common accidents of life, but here such an unlooked-for storm of ills falls on me. It beats down all my strength. I cannot bear it. We must not part. What dost thou say? Not part? Hast thou forgot the vow that I have made? Are not there heavens and gods that thunder over us? But see, thy brother Marcus bends this way. I sicken at the sight. Once more farewell. Farewell, and know thou wrong'st me if thou think'st ever was love, or ever grief like mine. Exit Lucia. Enter Marcus. Porteous, what hopes? How stands she? Am I doomed to life or death? What wouldst thou have me say? What means this pensive posture? Thou appearst like one amazed and terrified.
I've a reason. Thy downcast looks and thy disordered thoughts tell me my fate. I ask not the success my cause has found. I'm grieved I undertook it. What? Does the barbarous maid insult my heart, my aching heart, and triumph in my pains? That I could cast her from my thoughts forever? Away! You're too suspicious in your griefs. Lucia, though sworn never to think of love, compassionates your pains and pities you. Compassionates my pains, and pities me? What is compassion when tis void of love? Fool that I was to choose so cold a friend to urder my cause! Compassionates my pains? Prithee, what art, what rhetoric didst thou use to gain this mighty boon? She pities me. To one that asks the warm returns of love, compassion's cruelty, tis "'Gorn!
"'Tis death!' "'Marcus, no more! "'Have I deserved this treatment?' "'What have I said? "'How porteous, oh, forgive me! "'The soul exasperated in him falls out with everything, "'its friend itself!' Shout. "'Ha! "'What means that shout, big with the sounds of war? "'What a new alarm!' A second louder yet swells in the wind, and comes more full upon us. Oh, for some glorious cause to fall in battle! Lucia, thou hast undone me. Thy disdain has break my heart. Tis death must give me ease. Quick, let us hence. Who knows if Cato's life stands sure? Oh, Marcus, I am warmed. My heart leaps at the trumpet's voice and burns for glory. Exeunt. Scene Two. Part of the Senate House. Enter Sempronius, with leaders of the mutiny.
At length the winds are raised, the storms blow high. Be it your care, my friends, to keep it up in all its fury and direct it right, that has spent itself on Cato's head. Meanwhile— I'll herd among his friends, and seem one of their number, that, whate'er arrive, my friends and fellow soldiers may be safe. Exit. We are all safe. Sempronius is our friend. Sempronius is as brave a man as Cato. But hark, he enters. Bear up boldly to him. Be sure you beat him down and bind him fast. This day will end our toils. Fear nothing, for Sempronius is our friend. Enter Sempronius with Cato, Lucius, Porteus, and Marcus. Where are those bold, intrepid sons of war, that greatly turn their backs upon the foe, and to their generals send a brave defiance?
Sempronius aside. Curse on the dastard souls! They stand astonished! Perfidious men! And will you thus dishonor your past exploits and sully all your wars? Why could not Cato fall without your guilt? Behold, ungrateful men! Behold my bosom naked to your swords, and let the man that's injured strike the blow, which of you all suspects that he is wronged, or thinks he suffers greater ills than Cato. Am I distinguished from you but by toils, superior toils, and heavier weight of cares? Painful preeminence. Sempronius aside. Confusion to the villains! All is lost! Have you forgotten Libya's burning waste, its barren rocks, parched earth and hills of sand? Its tainted air, and all its broods of poison.
Who was the first to explore the untrodden path, when life was hazarded in every step? Or, fainting in the long laborious march, when on the banks of an unlooked-for stream you sunk the river with repeated draughts? Who was the last of all your host who thirsted? Did not his temples glow in the same sultry winds and scorching heats? Hence, worthless men, hence, and complain to Caesar. You could not undergo the toil of war, nor bear the hardships that your leader bore. See, Cato. See the unhappy men. They weep. Fear and remorse and sorrow for their crime appear in every look and plead for mercy. Learn to be honest men. Give up yon leaders, and pardon shall descend on all the rest. Cato, commit these wretches to my care.
First let them eat to be broken on the rack, then, with what life remains, impaled and left to writhe at leisure round the bloody stake. There let them hang, and taint the southern wind. The partners of their crime will learn obedience. Forbear, Sempronius. See they suffer death, but in their deaths remember they are men. Strain not the laws to make their tortures grievous. Lucius, the base, degenerate age requires severity, when by just vengeance guilty mortals perish. The gods behold the punishment with pleasure, and lay the uplifted thunderbolt aside. Cato, I execute thy will with pleasure. Meanwhile, we'll sacrifice to liberty. Remember, O my friends, the laws, the rights, the generous plan of power delivered down from age to age by your renowned forefathers.
So dearly bought, the price of so much blood. Oh, let it never perish in your hands, but piously transmit it to your children. Do thou, great liberty, inspire our souls, and make our lives in thy possession happy, or are deaths glorious in thy just defence? Exeunt, Cato, etc. Sempronius, you have acted like yourself. One would have thought you had been half in earnest. Villains stand off, base, groveling, worthless wretches, mongrels in faction, poor faint-hearted traitors. Nay, now. You carry it too far, Sempronius. No, villains. When such paltry slaves presume to mix in treason, if the plot succeeds, their throne neglected by. But if it fails— They'll show to die like dogs, as you shall do.
Here, take these factitious monsters, drag them forth to sudden death. Nay, since it comes to this— Dispatch them quick. But first pluck out their tongues, lest with their dying breath they sow sedition. Exeunt guards with their leaders. Enter Syphax. Our first design, my friend, has proved abortive. Still there remains an after-game to play. My troops are mounted, let but Sempronius head us in our flight. We'll force the gate where Marcus keeps his guard, and you down all that would oppose our passage. A day will bring us into Caesar's camp. Confusion! I've failed of half my purpose. Marsha! The charming Marsha is left behind. How? Will Serpronius turn a woman's slave? Think not thy friend can ever feel the soft and manly warmth and tenderness of love.
Syphax, I long to clasp that haughty maid and bend her stubborn virtue to my passion. When I have gone thus far, I'd cast her off. Well said. That's spoken like thyself, Sempronius. What hinders them but that thou find her out, and hurry her away by manly force? But how to gain admission? Raxus is given to none but Juba and her brothers. Thou shalt have Juba's dress and Juba's guards. The doors will open when Numidia's prince seems to appear before the slaves that watch them. Heavens, what a thought! Masha's my own! How will my bosom swell with anxious joy!
Exegent.
End of Act Three.
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4 04 - Act 4 21:14
Cato. Act IV. Scene I.
A Chamber. Enter Lucia and Marcia. Now tell me, Marcia. Tell me from thy soul if thou believest it is possible for a woman to suffer greater ills than Lucia suffers. O Lucia, Lucia, might my big swollen heart vent all its griefs and give loose to sorrow? Marcia could answer thee in sighs, keep pace with all thy woes, and count out tear for tear. I know thou art doomed alike to be beloved by Juba and thy father's friend Sempronius. But which of these has power to charm like Portia's? Still, I must beg thee not to name Sempronius. Lucia, I like not that loud, boisterous man. Juba, to all the bravery of a hero, adds softest love, and more than female sweetness. Juba might make the proudest of our sex, any of womankind, but Marcia happy.
And why not Marcia? Come, you strive in vain to hide your thoughts from one who knows too well the inward glowings of a heart in love. While Cato lives, his daughter has no right to love or hate, but as his choice directs. But should this father give you to Sempronius? I dare not think he will, but if he should, why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer, imaginary ills and fancy tortures? I hear the sound of feet. They march this way. Let us retire, and try if we can drown each softer thought in sense of present danger. When love once pleads admission to our hearts, in spite of all the virtues we can boast, the woman that deliberates is lost. Exeunt. Enter Sempronius, dressed like Juba, with Numidian guards.
The deer is lodged. I've tracked her to her covert. How will the young Numidian rave to see his mistress lost? If aught could glad my soul beyond the enjoyment of so bright a prize, t'would be to torture that young gay barbarian. But hark, what noise! Death to my hopes! Tis he! Tis Juba's self! There is but one way left. Enter Juba. What do I seek? Who's this that dares usurp the guards and habits of Numidia's prince? One that was born to scourge thy arrogance, presumptuous youth. What can this mean? Sempronius. My sword shall answer thee. Have at thy heart. Nay, then, beware thy own proud barbarous man. Sempronius falls. Curse my stars! Am I doomed to fall by a boy's hand, disfigured in a vile, numidian dress, and for a worthless woman?
Gods, I'm distracted. This is the close of life. Oh, for a peal of thunder, they'll make earth, sea and air and heaven, and Cato tremble. dies. How hence to Cato that we may there at length unravel all this dark design, this mystery of fate. Exit Juba. Enter Lucia and Marcia. Sure it was the clash of sorts. My troubled heart is so cast down and sunk amidst its sorrows. It throbs with fear and aches at every sound. Oh, Marcia! Should I, brothers, for my sake? I'd die away with horror at the thought. See, Lucia, see! Here's blood! Here's blood and murder! Ha! A Numidian! Heaven preserved the prince! The face lies muffled within the garment. But, ah! Death to my sight, a diadem, and royal robes!
O gods, tis he, tis he! Juba lies dead before us! Now, Marcia! Now call up to thy assistance, thy wanted strength and constancy of mind. Thou canst not put it to a greater trial. Lucia, look there and wonder at my patience. Have I not cause to rave, and beat my breast to rend my heart with grief and run distracted? What can I think or say to give thee comfort? Talk not of comfort, tis for lighter ills. Behold the sight that strikes all comfort dead. Enter Juba, listening. I will indulge my sorrows and give way to all the pangs and fury of despair. That man, the best of men, deserved it from me. What do I hear? And was the false Sempronius that best of men? Oh, had I fallen like him, and could have been thus mourned, I had been happy.
"'Tis not in fate to ease my tortured breast. Oh, he was all made up of love and charms, whatever maid could wish or man admire. Delight of every eye, when he appeared, a secret pleasure gladdened all that saw him. But when he talked, the proudest Roman blushed to hear his virtues, and old age grew wise. Oh, Juba, Juba!" What means that voice? Did she not call on? Juba. Why do I think on what he was? He's dead. He's dead and never knew how much I loved him. Lucia, who knows but his poor, bleeding heart, amidst its agonies, remembered Marcia, and the last words he uttered called me cruel. Alas, he knew not hapless youth. He knew not Marcia's whole soul was full of love and Juba. Where am I? Do I live?
Or am indeed what Marcia thinks? All is Elysium round me. Elysium. Ye dear remains of the most loved of men, Nor modesty nor virtue here forbid, A last embrace, while thus— See, Marcia, see, the happy Jubal lives, He lives to catch that dear embrace, And to return it, too, with mutual warmth and eagerness of love. With pleasure and amaze I stand transported. If thou art Juba, who lies there? A wretch. Disguised like Juba, on a cursed design. I could not bear to leave thee in the neighborhood of death, but flew in all the haste of love. I've been surprised at an unguarded hour, but must not go back. The love that lay half smothered in my breast has broke through all its weak restraints and burns in its full luster.
I cannot, if I would, conceal it from thee. My only wish. How shall I speak the transport of my soul? Lucia, thy arm, lead to my apartment. O Prince, I blush to think what I have said, but fate has wrested the confession from me. Go on and prosper in the paths of honor. Thy virtue will excuse my passion for thee, and make the gods propitious to our love. Exeunt, Marcia, and Lucia. I am so blessed. I fear, tis all a dream. Fortune, thou now hast made amends for all thy past unkindness. I absolve my stars. What though Numidia at her conquered towns and provinces do swell the victor's triumph, Juba will never at his fate repine. Let Caesar have the world. If Marcia's mine. Exit. Scene Two. The Street.
A march at a distance. Enter Cato and Lucius. I stand astonished. What the bold Sempronius, that still broke foremost through the crowd of patriots, as with a hurricane of zeal transported, and virtuous even to madness. Trust me, Lucius, our civil discords have produced such crimes, such monstrous crimes. I am surprised at nothing. O Lucius, I am sick of this bad world. The daylight and the sun grow painful to me. Enter Porteus. But see where Porteus comes. What means this haste? Why are thy looks thus changed? My heart is grieved. I bring such news as will afflict my father. Has Caesar shed more Roman blood? Not so. The traitor Syphax, as within the square he exercised his troops, the signal given, flew off at once with his Numidian horse to the south gate, where Marcus holds the watch.
I saw and called to stop him, but in vain. He tossed his arm aloft, and proudly told me he would not stay and perish like Sempronius. Perfidious man! But haste, my son, and see thy brother Marcus acts at Roman's part. Exit Portius. Lucius, the torrent bears too hard upon me. Justice gives way to force. The conquered world is Caesar's. Cato. Has no business in it. While pride, oppression, and injustice reign, the world will still demand her Cato's presence. In pity to mankind, submit to Caesar, and reconcile thy mighty soul to life. Would Lucius have me live to swell the number of Caesar's slaves, or by a base submission give up the cause of Rome? and own a tyrant. The victor never will impose on Cato ungenerous terms.
His enemies confess the virtues of humanity are Caesar's. Curse on his virtues! They've undone his country. Such popular humanity is treason. But see, young Juba, the good youth appears, full of the guilt Alas, poor prince! His fate deserves compassion. Enter Juba. I blush, and am confounded to appear before thy presence, Cato. What's thy crime? I'm a Numidian. And a brave one, too. Thou hast a Roman soul. Hast thou not heard of my false countrymen? Alas, young prince, falsehood and fraud shoot up in every soil, the product of all climes. Rome has its caesars. Tis generous thus to comfort the distressed. Tis just to give applause where tis deserved. Thy virtue, prince, has stood the test of fortune, like purest gold that, tortured in the furnace, comes out more bright and brings forth all its weight.
What shall I answer thee? I'd rather gain thy praise, O Cato, than Numidia's empire. Enter Porteus. Miss Fortune on Miss Fortune, grief on grief, my brother Marcus. Ah, what has he done? Has he forsook his post? Has he given way? Did he look tamely on and let them pass? Scarce had I left my father, but I met him, born on the shields of his surviving soldiers, breathless and pale and covered o'er with wounds. Long at the head of his few faithful friends, he stood the shock of a whole host of foes, till, obstinately brave and bent on death, oppressed with multitudes, he greatly fell. I'm satisfied. Nor did he fall before his sword had pierced through the false heart of Syphax. Yonder he lies. I saw the horrid traitor grin in the pangs of death and bite the ground.
Thanks to the gods, my boy has done his duty. Portius, when I am dead, be sure you place his urn near mine. Long may they keep asunder. O Cato, arm thy soul with all its patience. See where the corpse of thy dead son approaches. The citizens and senators alarmed have gathered round it and attend it weeping. Welcome, my son. Here, lay him down, my friends, full in my sight, that I may view at leisure. The bloody course, and count those glorious wounds. How beautiful is death when earned by virtue! Who would not be that youth? What pity is it that we can die but once to serve our country? Why sits the sadness on your brows, my friends? I should have blushed if Cato's house had stood secure. And flourished in a civil war.
Portius, behold thy brother, and remember, thy life is not thy own when Rome demands it. Was ever man like this? Alas, my friends, why mourn you thus? Let not a private loss afflict your hearts. Tis Rome requires our tears. The mistress of the world, the seat of empire, the nurse of heroes, the delight of gods, that humbled the proud tyrants of the earth and set the nations free. Rome is no more. O liberty, O virtue, O my country. Juba aside. Behold that upright man. Rome. Fills his eyes with tears that flowed not o'er his own dear son. Whate'er the Roman virtue has subdued? The son's whole course, the day and year, are Caesar's. For him the self-devoted Decii died, the Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquered.
Even Pompey fought for Caesar. Oh, my friends, how is the toil of fate, the work of ages, the Roman Empire fallen? Oh, cursed ambition, fallen into Caesar's hands. Our great forefathers had left him not to conquer but his country. While Cato lives, Caesar will blush. Caesar, ashamed? Has he not seen Pharsalia? Caesar's time thou saved thyself and us. Caesar's not a thought on me. I'm out of danger. Heaven will not leave me in the victor's hand. Caesar shall never say he conquered Cato. But, O my friends, your safety fills my heart with anxious thoughts. A thousand secret terrors rise in my soul. How shall I save my friends? Tis now, O Caesar, I begin to fear thee. Caesar has mercy, if we ask it of him.
Then ask it. I conjure you. Let him know whatever was done against him. Cato did it. Add, if you please, that I request of him, that I myself, with tears, request it of him. The virtue of my friends may pass unpunished. Juba, my heart is troubled for thy sake. Shall I advise thee to regain Numidia, or seek the conqueror? If I forsake thee, whilst I have life, may heaven abandon Juppa. Thy virtues, prince, if I foresee aright, will one day make thee great. At Rome, hereafter, it will be no crime to have been Cato's friend. Porteous, draw near, my son. Thou oft has seen thy sire engaged. In a corrupted state, wrestling with vice and faction. Now thou seest me spent, overpowered, despairing of success.
Let me advise thee to retreat betimes to thy paternal seat, the Sabine Field, where the great censor toiled with his own hands, and all our frugal ancestors were blest. In humble virtues and a rural life. There live retired. Pray for the peace of Rome. Content thyself to be obscurely good when vice prevails, and impious men bear sway. The post of honor is a private station. I hope my father does not recommend a life to Porteus that he scorns himself. Farewell, my friends. If there be any of you who dare not trust the victor's clemency, know there are ships prepared, by my command, that shall convey you to the wished-for port. Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you? The conqueror draws near.
Once more, farewell. If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet in happier climes, and on a safer shore, where Caesar never shall approach us more. Pointing to his dead son. There, the brave youth, with love of virtue fired. Who greatly in his country's cause expired, shall know he conquered. The firm patriot there, who made the welfare of mankind his care, though still by faction, vice, and fortune crossed, shall find the generous labor was not lost.
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5 05 - Act 5 14:40
Cato, Act V. Scene I, A Chamber. Cato's solace, sitting in a thoughtful posture, in his hand, Plato's book on the immortality of the soul. A drawn sword on the table by him. It must be so, Plato, though a reason's well, else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, this longing after immortality, or whence this secret dread and inward horror of falling into naught. Why shrinks the soul back on herself, and startles at destruction? Tis the divinity that stirs within us. Tis heaven itself that points out, and 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, 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 Caesar? I'm weary of conjectures. This must end them. Laying his hand upon 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 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 favor her. Then my awakened soul may take her flight, renewed in all her strength and fresh with life, an offering lit for heaven. Let guilt or fear disturb man's rest. Cato knows neither of them, indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. Enter Porteus. But, ha! Who's this? My son, why this intrusion? Were not my orders that I would be private? Why am I disobeyed? Alas, my father, what means this sword, this instrument of death? Let me convey it hence.
Rash youth, forbear. Oh, let the prayers, the entreaties of your friends, their tears, their common danger. Rest it from you. Wouldst thou betray me? Wouldst thou give me up, a slave, a captive into Caesar's hands? Retire, and learn obedience to a father, or no young man. Look not thus sternly on me. You know I'd rather die than disobey you. Tis well. Again I master of myself. Now, Caesar, 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. O sir, forgive your son, whose grief hangs heavy on him. Oh, my father, how am I sure it is not the last time I shall ever call you so?
Be not displeased. Oh, 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. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful. Embracing 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. Your words give comfort to my drooping heart. Porteous, thou mayest rely upon my conduct. Thy father will not act what misbecomes him. But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting among thy father's friends. See them embarked, and tell me if the winds and seas befriend them. My soul is quite weighted down with care, and asks the soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.
My thoughts are more at ease. My heart revives. Exit Cato. Enter Marcia. O Marcia! Oh, my sister, still there's hope our father will not cast away a life so needful to us all and to his country. He is retired to rest and seems to cherish thoughts full of peace. He has dispatched me hence with orders that bespeak a mind composed and studious for the safety of his friends. Marcia. Take care that none disturb his slumbers. Exit. O ye immortal powers that guard the just! Watch round his couch and soften his repose. Banish his sorrows and becalm his soul with easy dreams. Remember all his virtues and show mankind that goodness is your care. Enter Lucia. Where is your father, Marcia? Where is Cato?
Lucia, speak low. He is retired to rest. Lucy, I feel a gentle dawning hope rise in my soul. We shall be happy still. Alas, I tremble when I think on Cato. In every view, in every thought, I tremble. Cato is stern and awful as a god. He knows not how to wink at human frailty or pardon weakness that he never felt. Though stern and awful to the foes of Rome, he is all goodness, Lucia, always mild, compassionate and gentle to his friends, filled with domestic tenderness, the best, the kindest father I have ever found him, easy and good, and bounteous to my wishes. Lucia. Tis his consent alone can make us blessed. Marcia, we both are equally involved in the same intricate, perplexed distress. The cruel hand of fate that has destroyed thy brother Marcus, Whom we both lament.
And ever shall lament unhappy youth. Has set my soul at large, and now I stand loose of my vow. But who knows Cato's thoughts? Who knows how yet he may dispose of porches, or how he has determined of himself? Let him but live. Commit the rest to heaven. Enter Lucius. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man. O Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father. Some power invisible supports his soul, and bears it up in all its wonted greatness. A kind, refreshing sleep is fallen upon him. I saw him stretched at ease, his fancy lost in pleasing dreams. As I drew near his couch, he smiled and cried. Caesar, thou canst not hurt me. His mind still labours with some dreadful thought. Enter Juba. Lucius, the horsemen are returned from viewing the number, strength, and posture of our foes, who now encamp within a short hour's march.
On the high point of yon bright western tower, we ken them from afar, The sitting sun plays on their shining arms and burnished helmets, and covers all the field with gleams of fire. Marcia, tis time we should awake thy father. Caesar is still disposed to give us terms, and waits at distance till he hears from Cato. Enter Porteus. Porteous, thy looks speak somewhat of importance. What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks I see unusual gladness sparkle in thy eyes. As I was hasting to the port, where now my father's friends, impatient for a passage, accuse the lingering winds, a sail arrived from Pompey's son, who— Through the realms of Spain calls out for vengeance on his father's death and rouses the whole nation up to arms.
Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome assert her rights and claim her liberty. But, hark, what means that groan? Oh, give me way and let me fly into my father's presence. Exit. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome, and, in the wild disorder of his soul, mourns o'er his country.
Ah, second groan! Heaven guard us all. Alas, tis not the voice of one who sleeps. Tis agonizing pain, tis death in that sound. Enter Porteus. O sight of woe! O! Marcia, what we feared is come to pass. Cato has fallen upon his sword. Oh, Porteous, hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale, and let me guess the rest. I've raised him up and placed him in his chair, where, pale and faint, he gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him, Demands to see his friends, his servants weeping, obsequious to his order, bear him hither. Oh, heaven, assist me in this dreadful hour to pay the last sad duties to my father. Cato brought on, in a chair. Here, set me down. Porteous, come near me. Are my friends embarked?
Can anything be thought of for their service? While I yet live, let me not live in vain. O Lucius, art thou here. Thou art too good. Let this, our friendship, live between our children. Make Portia's happy in thy daughter, Lucia. Marcia, my daughter, O, Bend me forward. Juba loves thee, Marcia. A senator of Rome, while Rome survived, would not have matched his daughter with a king. But Caesar's arms have thrown down all distinction. I'm sick to death. Oh, when shall I get loose from this vain world, the abode of guilt and sorrow? And yet, Methinks a beam of light breaks in on my departing soul. Alas, I fear I've been too hasty. O ye powers that search the heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts.
If I have done amiss, impute it not. The best may err, but you are good, and Oh! Dies. There fled the greatest soul that ever warmed a Roman breast. From hence let fierce contending nations know what dire effects from civil discord flow. Tis this that shakes our country with alarms, and gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms, produces fraud and cruelty and strife. And robs the guilty world of Cato's life. Exeunt Omnes. The End End of Cato by Joseph Addison.