Against the lords and sovereigns of the world?
Dost not thou 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?
Syph. Gods! Where's the worth that sets this people Above your own Numida's tawny sons!
Do they with tougher sinews bend the bow?
Or flies the jav'lin swifter to its mark,
Launch'd by the vigor of a Roman arm?
Who like our active African instructs
The fiery steed, and trains him to his hand?
Or guides in troops th' embattled elephant,
Laden with war? These, these are arts, my prince,
In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome.
Jub. These all are virtues of a meaner rank,
Perfections that are placed in bones and nerves
A Roman soul is bent on higher views:
To civilize the rude unpolish'd world;
To lay it under the restraints of laws;
To make man mild and sociable to man;
To cultivate the wild licentious savage
With wisdom, discipline, and liberal arts;
Th' establishment of life. Virtues like these
Make human nature shine, reform the soul,
And break our fierce barbarians into men.
Syph. Patience, just Heavens! Excuse an old man'sWhat are those wondrous, civilizing arts, This Roman polish and this smooth behaviour, That render man thus tractable and tame? Are they not only to disguise our passions, To set our looks at variance with our thoughts,. To check the starts and sallies of the soul, And break off all its commerce with the tongue?: In short, to change us into other creatures, Than what our nature or the gods design'd us?
Jub. To strike thee dumb, turn up thine eyes to Cato!
There may'st thou see to what a godlike height,
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man.
While good, and just, and anxious for his friends,
He's still severely bent against himself;
Renouncing sleep, and rest, and food and ease,
He strives with thirst and hunger, toil snd heat;
And when his fortune sets before him all
The pomp and pleasure which his soul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.
Syph. 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 these boasted virtues ;
Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase,.
Amidst the running streams he slakes 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 the wonted game,
And if the following day he chance to find
A new repast, or an untasted spring,
Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.
Jub. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern
What virtues grow from ignorance, and what from choice,
Nor how the hero differs from the brute.
But grant that others could with equal glory
Look down on pleasures and the baits of sense;
Where shall we find the man that bears affliction,
Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato?
Heavens with what strength, what steadiness of mind,
He trinmphs in the midst of all his sufferings ?
How doeshe rise against a load of woes,
And thank the gods that threw the weight upon him!
Syph. '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 fall'n by a slave's hand inglorious;
Nor would his slaughtered army now have lain
On Afric's sands, disfigured by their wounds,
To gorge the wolves and vultures of Numidia.
Jub. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh :
My fathers name brings tears into mine eyes.
Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills!
Jub. What would'st thou have me do?
Jub. Syphax, I should be more than twice an orphan ́ By such a loss.
Syph. Ay, there's the tye that binds you!
You long to call him father. Marcia's charms
Work in your heart, unseen, and plead for Cato.
No wonder you are deaf to all I say.
Jub. Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate; I've hitherto permitted it to rave,
And talk at large! but learn to keep it in,
Lest it should take more freedom than I'll give it.
Syph. Sir, your great father never used me thus,
Alas, he's dead! but can you e'er forget
The tender sorrows and the pangs of nature,
The fond embraces and repeated blessings
Which you drew from him in your last farewell?
Still must I cherish the dear sad remembrance,
At once to torture and to please my soul.
The good old king, at parting, wrung my hand,
(His eyes brimful of tears) then sighing, cried-
"Prithee be careful of my son !"-His grief
Swell'd up so high, he could not utter more.
Jub. Alas, the story melts away my soul!
The best of fathers! how shall I discharge
The gratitude and duty which I owe him?
Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart.
Jub. His counsels bade me yield to thy directions:
Then, Syphax, chide me in severest terms;
Vent all thy passion, I'll stand its shock,
Calm and unruffled as a summer's sea,
When not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface.
Syph. Alas, my prince I'll guide you to your safety Jub. I do believe thou would'st; but tell me how? Syph. Fly from the fate of Cæsars foes.
Jub. My father scorn'd to do it.
Syph. And therefore died.
Jub. Better to die ten thousand deaths,
Than wound my honor.
Syph. Rather say your love.
Jub. Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my temper; Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame
I long have stifled and would fain conceal?
Syph. Believe me, prince, tho' hard to conquer love,
'Tis easy to divert and break its force.
Absence might cure it, or a second mistress
Light up another flame and put out this..
The glowing dames of Zama's royal court
Have faces flush'd with more exalted charms :
The sun that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and color in their cheeks;
Were you with these, my prince, you'd soon forget
The pale, unripen'd beauties of the north.
Jub. 'Tis not a set of features, nor complexion,
The tincture of the skin, that I admire.
Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eyes, and palls upon his sense.
The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex:
Tue, she is fair, (O 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 every thing she acts or speaks.
While winning miidness and attractive smiles
Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace,
Soften the rigor of her father's virtues.
Syph. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise!
AREWEL, a long farewel to all my greatness! Wol. This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow, blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely, His greatness is a ripening, nips his shoot; And then he falls as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanten boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond any depth; my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and, now, has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate you; I feel my heart now opened. O how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to That sweet aspect of princes and his ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have, And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Crom. I have not the power to speak, Sir.
Wol. What amazed
At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay if you weep,
I'm fall'n indeed.
Crom. How does your grace?
Wol. Why, well;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel within me,
A peace above all earthly dignities;
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me;
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken
A load would sink a navy, too much honour;
O, 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen,
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!
Crom. I'm glad your grace has made that right use of it. Wol. I hope I have; I'm able now methinks,
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,
To endure more miseries and greater far,
Than my weak hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad?
Crom. The heaviest and the worst,
Is your displeasure with the king.
Wol. God bless him!
Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor, in your place.
Wol. That's somewhat sudden-
But he's a learned man.
Long in his highness' favor, and do justice,
For truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones
When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphan's tears wept on him!
What more?
Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome,
Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.
Wol. That's news indeed!
Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view'd in open as the Queen,
Going to Chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.
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