th these, my prince, you'd soon forget
The pale, unripen'd beauties of the north.

_Jub._ 'Tis not a set of features, or complexion,
The tincture of a skin, that I admire:
Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.
The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her sex:
True, she is fair (Oh, 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 mildness and attractive smiles
Dwell in her looks, and, with becoming grace,
Soften the rigour of her father's virtue.

_Syph._ How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise!
But on my knees, I beg you would consider--

_Jub._ Ha! Syphax, is't not she?--She moves this way;
And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter.
My heart beats thick--I pr'ythee, Syphax, leave me.

_Syph._ Ten thousand curses fasten on them both!
Now will the woman, with a single glance,
Undo what I've been lab'ring all this while. [_Exit_ SYPHAX.

_Enter_ MARCIA _and_ LUCIA.

_Jub._ Hail, charming maid! How does thy beauty smooth
The face of war, and make even horror smile!
At sight of thee my heart shakes off its sorrows;
I feel a dawn of joy break in upon me,
And for a while forget th' approach of Caesar.

_Marcia._ I should be grieved, young prince, to think my presence
Unbent your thoughts, and slacken'd them to arms,
While, warm with slaughter, our victorious foe
Threatens aloud, and calls you to the field.

_Jub._ Oh, Marcia, let me hope thy kind concerns
And gentle wishes follow me to battle!
The thought will give new vigour to my arm,
And strength and weight to my descending sword,
And drive it in a tempest on the foe.

_Marcia._ My pray'rs and wishes always shall attend
The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue,
And men approved of by the gods and Cato.

_Jub._ That Juba may deserve thy pious cares,
I'll gaze for ever on thy godlike father,
Transplanting one by one, into my life,
His bright perfections, till I shine like him.

_Marcia._ My father never, at a time like this,
Would lay out his great soul in words, and waste
Such precious moments.

_Jub._ Thy reproofs are just,
Thou virtuous maid; I'll hasten to my troops,
And fire their languid souls with Cato's virtue.
If e'er I lead them to the field, when all
The war shall stand ranged in its just array,
And dreadful pomp, then w