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Here tears fhall flow from a more gen'rous caufe,
Such tears as Patriots fhed for dying Laws:
He bids your breafts with ancient ardour rife, 15
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confefs'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:
No common object to your fight difplays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys, 20
A brave man ftruggling in the ftorms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling ftate.
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bofom beats not in his Country's caufe?
Who fees him act, but envies ev'ry deed? 25
Who hears him
groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars,
The fpoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain and impotently great,

Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; 30
As her dead Father's rev'rend image paft,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft;


VER. 20. But what with pleafure] This alludes to a famous paffage of Seneca, which Mr. Addifon afterwards ufed as a motte to his play, when it was printed.

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The Triumph ceas'd, tears gufh'd from ev'ry eye;
The World's great Victor pafs'd unheeded by;
Her laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's fword.


Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd, And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honeft fcorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd; Your scene precariously fubfifts too long



On French tranflation, and Italian fong.
Dare to have fenfe yourselves; affert the ftage,
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such Plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.



VER. 37. Britons, attend :] Mr. Pope had written it arife, in the fpirit of Poetry, and Lberty; but Mr. Addison frighten'd at fo daring an expreffion, which, he thought, fquinted at rebellion, would have it alter'd, in the fpirit of Profe and Politics, to attend.

VER. 46. As Cato's felf, etc.] This alludes to that famous story of his going into the Theatre, and immediately coming out again,



Mr. Rowe's JANE SHORE.

Defign'd for Mrs, OLDFIELD.


Rodigious this! the Frail-one of our Play From her own Sex fhould mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head afide, Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd, The Play may pass--but that strange creature, Shore, I can't--indeed now--I fo hate a whore-- 6. Juft as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool; So from a fifter finner you fhall hear, "How ftrangely you expofe yourself, my dear?" But let me die, all raillery apart,


Our fex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked cuftom fo contrive,
We'd be the beft, good-natur'd things alive.


There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale, 15
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail,
Such rage without betrays the fire within
In fome clofe corner of the foul, they fin;
Still hoarding up moft fcandalously nice,
Amidft their virtues a reserve of vice.



The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
you enjoy foft nights and folid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with faints, and bed with fin-


Well, if our Author in the Wife offends, 25
He has a Hufband that will make amends:
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,
And fure fuch kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old, they pardoned breach of vows,
Stern Cato's felf was no relentless spouse: 30
Plu--Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his Wife:

Yet if a friend, a night or fo, fhould need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder.

To lend a wife, 'few here would fcruple make, 35

Tho' with the Stoic Chief our stage may ring,
The Stoic Husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a fage, 'tis true, 39
And lov'd his country---but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might inftruct the City:.
There, many an honest man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a difgrace, 45
That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face;
To see a piece of failing flesh and blood,
In all the rest so impudently good;


Faith, let the modest Matrons of the town
Come here in crouds and ftare the ftrumpet down,

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