ill I think on thee;
Oh, lovely maid! then will I think on thee;
And, in the shock of charging hosts, remember
What glorious deeds should grace the man who hopes
For Marcia's love. [_Exit_ JUBA.

_Lucia._ Marcia, you're too severe;
How could you chide the young good-natured prince,
And drive him from you with so stern an air,
A prince that loves, and dotes on you to death?

_Marcia._ 'Tis therefore, Lucia, that I chide him from me;
His air, his voice, his looks, and honest soul,
Speak all so movingly in his behalf,
I dare not trust myself to hear him talk.

_Lucia._ Why will you fight against so sweet a passion,
And steel your heart to such a world of charms?

_Marcia._ How, Lucia! wouldst thou have me sink away
In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love,
When ev'ry moment Cato's life's at stake?
Caesar comes arm'd with terror and revenge,
And aims his thunder at my father's head.
Should not the sad occasion swallow up
My other cares?

_Lucia._ Why have I not this constancy of mind,
Who have so many griefs to try its force?
Sure, Nature form'd me of her softest mould,
Enfeebled all my soul with tender passions,
And sunk me ev'n below my own weak sex:
Pity and love, by turns, oppress my heart.

_Marcia._ Lucia, disburden all thy cares on me,
And let me share thy most retired distress.
Tell me, who raises up this conflict in thee?

_Lucia._ I need not blush to name them, when I tell thee
They're Marcia's brothers, and the sons of Cato.

_Marcia._ They both behold thee with their sister's eyes,
And often have reveal'd their passion to me.
But tell me, which of them is Lucia's choice?

_Lucia._ Suppose 'twere Portius, could you blame my choice?--
Oh, Portius, thou hast stolen away my soul!
Marcus is over warm, his fond complaints
Have so much earnestness and passion in them,
I hear him with a secret kind of horror,
And tremble at his vehemence of temper.

_Marcia._ Alas, poor youth!
How will thy coldness raise
Tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom!
I dread the consequence.

_Lucia._ You seem to plead
Against your brother Portius.

_Marcia._ Heav'n forbid.
Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover,
The same compassion would have fall'n on him.

_Lucia._ Was ever virgin love distress'd like mine!
Portius himself oft falls in tears before me
As if he mourn'd his rival's ill success;
Then bids me hide the motions of my heart,
Nor show which way it turns--so much he fears
The sad effect t