.

_Marc._ These are suggestions of a mind at ease:--
Oh, Portius! 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 Lucia kind----

_Por._ Thou see'st not that thy brother is thy rival;
But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [_Aside._
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 smother'd fondness burns within him;
When most it swells, and labours 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?

_Marc._ Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them.
Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, show
A virtue that has cast me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?

_Por._ Marcus, I know thy gen'rous temper well;
Fling but the appearance of dishonour on it,
It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.

_Marc._ A brother's suff'rings claim a brother's pity.

_Por._ Heav'n knows, I pity thee----Behold my eyes,
Ev'n 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.

_Marc._ Why then dost treat me with rebukes, instead
Of kind condoling cares, and friendly sorrow?

_Por._ Oh, Marcus! did I know the way to ease
Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains,
Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it.

_Marc._ Thou best of brothers, and thou best of friends!
Pardon a weak distemper'd soul, that swells
With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in calms,
The sport of passions. But Sempronius comes:
He must not find this softness hanging on me. [_Exit_ MARCUS.

_Enter_ SEMPRONIUS.

_Sem._ Conspiracies no sooner should be form'd
Than executed. What means Portius here?
I like not that cold youth. I must dissemble,
And speak a language foreign to my heart. [_Aside._
Good-morrow, Portius; let us once embrace,
Once more embrace, while yet we both are free.
To-morrow, should we thus express our friendship,
Each might receive a slave into his arms;
This