Cato: A Tragedy, in Five Acts

by Joseph Addison

A Chamber.
Cato solus, sitting in a thoughtful Posture;
in his Hand, Plato's Book on the Immortality of the Soul.
A drawn Sword on the Table by him.

Cato. It must be so—Plato, thou reason'st well—

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,

Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul

Back on herself, and startles at destruction?

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;

'Tis Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,

And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!

Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass?

The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;

But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.

Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us

(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud

Through all her works), He must delight in virtue;

And that which He delights in must be happy.

But when, or where?—this world was made for Cæsar:

I'm weary of conjectures—this must end them.

[Laying his hand upon his sword.

Thus am I doubly arm'd: my death and life,

My bane and antidote, are both before me.

This in a moment brings me to an end;

But this informs me I shall never die.

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself

Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,

But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,

Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

What means this heaviness, that hangs upon me?

This lethargy, that creeps through all my senses?

Nature, oppress'd and harass'd out with care,

Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her,

That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,

Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life,

An offering lit for Heav'n. Let guilt or fear

Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them,

Indiff'rent in his choice to sleep or die.

Enter Portius.

But, hah! who's this? my son! Why this intrusion?

Were not my orders that I would be private?

Why am I disobey'd?

Por. Alas, my father!

What means this sword, this instrument of death?

Let me convey it hence.

Cato. Rash youth, forbear!

Por. Oh, let the pray'rs, th' entreaties of your friends,

Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from you!

Cato. Wouldst thou betray me? Wouldst thou give me up,

A slave, a captive, into Cæsar's hands?

Retire, and learn obedience to a father,

Or know, young man—

Por. Look not thus sternly on me;

You know, I'd rather die than disobey you.

Cato. 'Tis well! again I'm master of myself.

Now, Cæsar, let thy troops beset our gates,

And bar each avenue; thy gath'ring fleets

O'erspread the sea, and stop up ev'ry port;

Cato shall open to himself a passage,

And mock thy hopes.——

Por. Oh, sir! forgive your son,

Whose grief hangs heavy on him. Oh, my father!

How am I sure it is not the last time

I e'er shall call you so? Be not displeased,

Oh, be not angry with me whilst I weep,

And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you

To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul!

Cato. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful.

[Embracing him.

Weep not, my son, all will be well again;

The righteous gods, whom I have sought to please,

Will succour Cato, and preserve his children.

Por. Your words give comfort to my drooping heart.

Cato. Portius, thou may'st rely upon my conduct:

Thy father will not act what misbecomes him.

But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting

Among thy father's friends; see them embark'd,

And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them.

My soul is quite weigh'd down with care, and asks

The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.

Por. My thoughts are more at ease, my heart revives—

[Exit Cato.

Enter Marcia.

Oh, Marcia! Oh, my sister, still there's hope

Our father will not cast away a life

So needful to us all, and to his country.

He is retired to rest, and seems to cherish

Thoughts full of peace.—He has dispatch'd me hence

With orders that bespeak a mind composed,

And studious for the safety of his friends.

Marcia, take care, that none disturb his slumbers.[Exit.

Marcia. Oh, ye immortal powers, that guard the just,

Watch round his couch, and soften his repose,

Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul

With easy dreams; remember all his virtues,

And show mankind that goodness is your care!

Enter Lucia.

Lucia. Where is your father, Marcia; where is Cato?

Marcia. Lucia, speak low, he is retired to rest.

Lucia, I feel a gentle dawning hope

Rise in my soul—We shall be happy still.

Lucia. Alas, I tremble when I think on 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, "Cæsar, 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.

Cæsar 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?——Oh, give me way,

And let me fly into my father's presence![Exit.

Luc. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome,

And, in the wild disorder of his soul,

Mourns o'er his country.—Ha! a second groan—

Heav'n guard us all!

Marcia. Alas, 'tis not the voice

Of one who sleeps; 'tis agonizing pain—

'Tis death is in that sound——

Enter Portius.

Por. Oh, sight of woe!

Oh, Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass—

Cato has fall'n upon his sword——

Luc. Oh, Portius,

Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale,

And let me guess the rest.

Por. I've raised him up,

And placed him in his chair; where pale and faint,

He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him,

Demands to see his friends. His servants weeping,

Obsequious to his order, bear him hither!——

Marcia. Oh, Heav'n! assist me in this dreadful hour,

To pay the last sad duties to my father!

Cato brought on, in a Chair.

Cato. Here set me down——

Portius, come near me—Are my friends embark'd?

Can any thing be thought of for their service?

Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain——

Oh, Lucius, art thou here?—Thou art too good—

Let this our friendship live between our children;

Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia——

Marcia, my daughter——

Oh, bend me forward!——Juba loves thee, Marcia—

A senator of Rome, while Rome survived,

Would not have match'd his daughter with a king—

But Cæsar's arms have thrown down all distinction—

I'm sick to death——Oh, when shall I get loose

From this vain world, th' abode of guilt and sorrow!

And yet, methinks, a beam of light breaks in

On my departing soul——Alas, I fear

I've been too hasty!—Oh, ye powers, that search

The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts,

If I have done amiss, impute it not——

The best may err, but you are good, and—Oh!—[Dies.

Por. There fled the greatest soul that ever warm'd

A Roman breast:—

From hence, let fierce contending nations know,

What dire effects from civil discord flow:

'Tis this that shakes our country with alarms;

And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms;

Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife,

And robs the guilty world of Cato's life.[Exeunt omnes.

THE END.

PRINTED BY J. SMITH.

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