PROLOGUE BY MR. POP E. T SPOKEN BY MR. WILKS. O wake the foul 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 wonder'd how they wept. Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; In pitying love we but our weakness show, And wild ambition well deferves its woe.. Here tears fhall flow from a more generous caufe, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : He bids your breafts with ancient ardor rife, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confefs'd in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and god like Cato was : No common object to your fight 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 fenate laws, What bofom beats not in his country's caufe? Who fees him act, but envies every deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? of wars, Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; - The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'er-caft, On French tranflation, and Italian fong. DRAMATIS SYPHAX, General of the Numidians. Mr. CIBBER. PORTIUS, Sons of Cato. MARCUS, Mr. POWEL. Mr. RYAN. DECIUS, Ambassador from Cæfar. Mr. Bow MAN. SCENE, a large Hall in the Governor's Palace of Utica, HE dawn is over-cast, the morning lowers, Tand heavily in clouds brings on the day, The great, th' important day; big with the fate And close the scene of blood. Already Cæfar MARCU S. Thy fteddy temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæfar, I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madness, when I think Th' infulting tyrant prancing o'er the field Oh Oh Portius, is there not fome chofen curse, PORTI U-S. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness, Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome. Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them. MARCU S. Who knows not this? But what can Cato do Against a world, a base degenerate world, That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæfar?- A poor epitome of Roman greatness, By heavens, fuch virtues, join'd with fuch fuccefs, PORTIU S. Remember what our father oft has told us: The |