m sick of this bad world!
The daylight and the sun grow painful to me.

_Enter_ PORTIUS.

But see, where Portius comes: what means this haste?
Why are thy looks thus changed?

_Por._ My heart is grieved,
I bring such news as will afflict my father.

_Cato._ Has Caesar shed more Roman blood?

_Por._ Not so.
The traitor Syphax, as within the square
He exercised his troops, the signal given,
Flew off at once with his Numidian horse
To the south gate, where Marcus holds the watch;
I saw, and call'd to stop him, but in vain:
He toss'd his arm aloft, and proudly told me,
He would not stay, and perish, like Sempronius.

_Cato._ Perfidious man! But haste, my son, and see
Thy brother Marcus acts a Roman's part. [_Exit_ PORTIUS.
--Lucius, the torrent bears too hard upon me:
Justice gives way to force: the conquer'd world
Is Caesar's! Cato has no business in it.

_Luc._ While pride, oppression, and injustice reign,
The world will still demand her Cato's presence.
In pity to mankind submit to Caesar,
And reconcile thy mighty soul to life.

_Cato._ Would Lucius have me live to swell the number
Of Caesar's slaves, or by a base submission
Give up the cause of Rome, and own a tyrant?

_Luc._ The victor never will impose on Cato
Ungen'rous terms. His enemies confess
The virtues of humanity are Caesar's.

_Cato._ Curse on his virtues! they've undone his country.
Such popular humanity is treason----
But see young Juba; the good youth appears,
Full of the guilt of his perfidious subjects!

_Luc._ Alas, poor prince! his fate deserves compassion.

_Enter_ JUBA.

_Jub._ I blush, and am confounded to appear
Before thy presence, Cato.

_Cato._ What's thy crime?

_Jub._ I'm a Numidian.

_Cato._ And a brave one, too. Thou hast a Roman soul.

_Jub._ Hast thou not heard of my false countrymen?

_Cato._ Alas, young prince!
Falsehood and fraud shoot up in ev'ry soil,
The product of all climes--Rome has its Caesars.

_Jub._ 'Tis generous thus to comfort the distress'd.

_Cato._ 'Tis just to give applause, where 'tis deserved:
Thy virtue, prince, has stood the test of fortune,
Like purest gold, that, tortured in the furnace,
Comes out more bright, and brings forth all its weight.

_Jub._ What shall I answer thee?
I'd rather gain
Thy praise, O Cato! than Numidia's empire.

_Enter_ PORTIUS.

_Por._ Misfortune on misfortune! grief on grief!
My brother Marcus----

_Cato._ Ha! what has he done?
Has he forsoo