PROLOGUE BY MR. POPE. SPOKEN BY MR. WILKS. To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, In pitying love we but our weakness show, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: Who sees him act, but envies every deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state, Britons attend: be worth like this approv'd, On French translation, and Italian song: As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear. • Britons attend. Altered thus by the author, from "Britons arise," to humour, we are told, the timid delicacy of Mr. Addison, who was in pain least that fierce word "arise," should be misconstrued (see Mr. Warburton's edition of Pope, Imitations of Horace, ep. 1, b. 1.) One is apt, indeed, to think this caution excessive; but there was ground enough for it, as will be seen, if we reflect, that the poet himself had made Sempronius talk in this strain.-"Rise Romans, rise," (act ii. sc. 1;) a clear comment (it would have been said, in that furious time) on the line in question. CATO. ACT I. SCENE I. PORTIUS, MARCUS. PORTIUS. The dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs, And heavily in clouds brings on the day, The great, th' important day, big with the fate And close the scene of blood. Already Cæsar While the present humour of idolizing Shakespear continues, no quarter will be given to this poem; though it be the master-piece of the author, and was the pride of the age in which it was written.-But a time will come, when, not as a tragedy, indeed, (for which the subject was unfit) but, as a work of art and taste, it will be supremely admired by all candid and judicious critics. This opening of the drama is too solemn and declamatory. The author speaks,-not his "Persona dramatis." Horace has given a caution against this misconduct, in his ridicule of "Fortunam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellum," which was addressed to the tragic, as well as, epic poet. MARCUS. Thy steady temper, Portius," Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter, PORTIUS. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness, Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome. Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon 'em. MARCUS. Who knows not this? but what can Cato do Against a world, a base degenerate world, That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæsar ? Pent up in Utica he vainly forms A poor epitome of Roman greatness, This a little palliates the indecorum, just now observed; and may let us see, that the poet himself was aware of it (so exact was his taste); but it does not wholly excuse it. |