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false fire-their sentiments are above nature, and superior to humanity. We are happy to see our complacency restored, when the Stoic sinks at last into the man, sorrows upon the bier of a beloved son, and thus claims again the condition he had laboured to

renounce.

PARTY carried this play up to a height where to have sustained itself was impossible. Time has pronounced it to be a sensible poem, which in representation interests now no more, and must be judged alone in the closet. Criticism there has demonstrated, that as a dramatic structure it is highly beautiful ; exquisite in its ornaments, graceful, and elegantly fitted up; but unhappily insecure from certain palpable defects ascertainable by a survey of its founda. tions.

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PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY MR. POPE.

To wake the soul 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 shuns by vulgar springs to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love ;
In pitying love we but our weakness show,
And wild ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause,
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and god-like Cato was :
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys ;
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling in a falling state!

While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause ?
Who sees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed ?
Ev'n when proud Cæsar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Shew'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's reu'rend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast,
The triumph ceas de tears gush'd from ev'ry eye,
The world's great victor past unheeded by :
Her last good man deje&ed Rome adorid,
And honour'd Cæsar's, less than Cato's sword.

Britons attend : Be worth like this approv'd, And shew you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd ; Our scenes precariously subsist too long On French translation, and Italian song : Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage ; Be justly warm’d with your own native rage : Such plays alone should please a British ear, . As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

DRURY- LANE.

Men. CATо,

Mr. Kemble. Lucius,

Senators. { SEMPRONIUS,

Mr. Barrymore. JUBA, Prince of Numidia,

Mr. Bannister, Jun. SYPHAX, General of the Numidians,

Mr. Aickin.

Mr. Palmer. MARCUS; } Sons of Cato.

Mr. Brereton. Decius, Ambassador from Cæsar, Mr. Chaplin. Mutineers, Guards, &c.

Women. MARCIA, Daughter to Cato,

Mrs. Ward. LUCIA, Daughter to Lucius,

Miss E. Kemble.

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COVENT-GARDEN.

Men. CATO,

Mr. Sheridan.
Lucius,

Mr. L'Estrange
Senators.
SEMPRONIUS,

Mr. Clarke.
JUBA, Prince of Numidia,

Mr. Wroughton. Syphax, General of the Numidians, Mr. Hull. PORTIUS,

Mr. Aickin.
Sons of Cato,
MARCUS,

Mr. Lewis.
Decius, Ambassador from Cæsar,

Mr, Fearon,
Mutineers, Guards, &c.

Women.
MARCIA, Daughter to Cato,

Mrs. Hartley
LUCIA, Daughter to Lucius,

Mrs. Jackson.
SCENE, A Hall in the Governor's Palace in Utica.

CATO.

ACT I., SCENE I.

Enter PORTIUS and MARCUS,

Portius. The dawn is over-cast, the morning low'rs, And heavily in clouds brings on the day, The great, tho important day, big with the 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 Cæsar Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword: Should he go farsher, numbers would be wanting To form new battles, and support his crimes. Ye gods, what havock does ambition make Among your works!

Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar, In the calm lights of mild philosophy; I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madness, when I think

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