d capon lin'd;
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age foists
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side.
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes.
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

_SPEECHES IN THE ROMAN SENATE_.

CATO.--Fathers! we once again are met in council.
Caesar's approach, has summon'd us together,
And Rome attends her fate from our resolves.
How shall we treat this bold aspiring man?
Success still follows him, and backs his crimes,
Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since
Receiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar's.
Why should I mention Juba's overthrow,
And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands
Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree
What course to take. Our foe advances on us,
And envies us ev'n Lybia's sultry deserts.
Fathers, pronounce your thoughts. Are they still fix'd
To hold it out and fight it to the last?
Or, are your hearts subdu'd, at length, and wrought;
By time and ill success, to a submission?--
Sempronius, speak.

SEMPRONIUS.--My voice is still for war.
Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to chuse, slav'ry or death?
No--let us rise at once; gird on our swords;
And, at the head of our remaining troops,
Attack the foe; break through the thick array
Of his throng'd legions; and charge home upon him.
Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the rest,
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.
Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands your help;
Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd citizens,
Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we
Sit here, delib'rating' hi told debates,
If we should sacrifice our lives to honour,
Or wear them out in servitude and chains.
Rouse up, for shame: Our brothers of Pharsalia
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud--to battle!
Great Pompey's shade complains that we are flow;
And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongs