Cato!
In every view, in every thought, I tremble!
Cato is stern and awful as a god;
He knows not how to wink at human frailty,
Or pardon weakness, that he never felt.

_Marcia._ Though stern and awful to the foes of Rome,
He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild;
Compassionate and gentle to his friends;
Fill'd with domestic tenderness, the best,
The kindest father; I have ever found him
Easy and good, and bounteous to my wishes.

_Lucia._ 'Tis his consent alone can make us blest.
Marcia, we both are equally involved
In the same intricate, perplex'd distress.
The cruel hand of fate, that has destroy'd
Thy brother Marcus, whom we both lament----

_Marcia._ And ever shall lament; unhappy youth!

_Lucia._ Has set my soul at large, and now I stand
Loose of my vow. But who knows Cato's thoughts?
Who knows how yet he may dispose of Portius,
Or how he has determined of himself?

_Marcia._ Let him but live, commit the rest to Heav'n.

_Enter_ LUCIUS.

_Luc._ Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man!
Oh, Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father!
Some power invisible supports his soul,
And bears it up in all its wonted greatness.
A kind, refreshing sleep is fall'n upon him:
I saw him stretch'd at ease; his fancy lost
In pleasing dreams; as I drew near his couch,
He smiled, and cried, "Caesar, thou canst not hurt me."

_Marcia._ His mind still labours with some dreadful thought.

_Enter_ JUBA.

_Jub._ Lucius, the horsemen are return'd from viewing
The number, strength, and posture of our foes,
Who now encamp within a short hour's march;
On the high point of yon bright western tower,
We ken them from afar; the setting sun
Plays on their shining arms and burnish'd helmets,
And covers all the field with gleams of fire.

_Luc._ Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father.
Caesar is still disposed to give us terms,
And waits at distance, till he hears from Cato.

_Enter_ PORTIUS.

Portius, thy looks speak somewhat of importance,
What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks, I see
Unusual gladness sparkle in thy eyes.

_Por._ As I was hasting to the port, where now
My father's friends, impatient for a passage,
Accuse the ling'ring winds, a sail arrived
From Pompey's son, who, through the realms of Spain,
Calls out for vengeance on his father's death,
And rouses the whole nation up to arms.
Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome
Assert her rights, and claim her liberty.
But, hark! what means that groan?----