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What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns, And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince?
Syph. '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.
Jub. Why dost thou cast out such ungen'rous terms Against the lords and sov’reigns 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 Afric, Amidst our barren rocks, and burning sands, That does not tremble at the Roman name? Syph. Gods! where's the worth that sets these
Fub. These all are virtues of a meaner rank;
To cultivate the wild, licentious savage,
Cato; There may'st thou see to what a god-like 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 and heat," And when his fortune sets before him all The pomps and pleasures that 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 desarts In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow,
But better practises those boasted.virtues.
Jub. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern What virtues grow from ignorance and 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 ? “ Heav'ns! with what strength, what steadiness of
mind, " He triumphs in the midst of all his suff'rings !" How does he rise against a load of woes, And thank the gods that throw the weight upon
him! · Syph. 'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of
On Afric sands disfigurd with their wounds,
Jub. Why dost thou call my sorrows up afresh? My father's name brings tears into my eyes.
Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills!
Jub. Syphax, I shou'd be more than twice an orphan By such a loss.
Syph. Aye, there's the tie that binds you!
Jub. Syphax, your zeal becomes importunate;
Syph. Sir, your great father never us'd me thus. Alas, he's dead! but can you e'er forget The tender sorrows, and the pangs of nature, " The fund 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 brim-tull of tears), then sighing, cry'd, Pr’ythee be careful of my son!~ His grief Swell’d up so high, he could not utter more.
Jub. Alas! thy story melts away my soul;
That best of fathers! how shall I discharge
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 a!l thy passion, and I'll stand its shock, Calm and unruffled as a summer sea, When not a breath of wind flies o'er its surface. Syph. Alas! my prince, I'd guide thee to your
safety. Jub. I do believe thou wouldst; but tell me how? Syph. Fly from the fate that follows Cæsar's foes. Jub. My father scorn'd to do it. Syph. And therefore dy’d.
Fub. Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths, Than wound my honour.
Syph. Rather say your love.
Jub. Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my temper.