‘T ‘s pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul;
I think the Romans call it stoicism.
The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd’s care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye.
Were you with these, my prince, you ‘d soon forget
The pale, unripened beauties of the north.
‘We are always doing’, says he, ‘something for Posterity, but I would fain see Posterity do something for us.’
Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.
My voice is still for war.
Gods! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to choose, slavery or death?
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty
Is worth a whole eternity in bondage.
The woman that deliberates is lost.
Curse all his virtues! they ‘ve undone his country.
What a pity is it
That we can die but once to save our country!
When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway,
The post of honour is a private station.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man.
From hence, let fierce contending nations know
What dire effects from civil discord flow.
The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, the important day, big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome.
Unbounded courage and compassion join’d,
Tempering each other in the victor’s mind,
Alternately proclaim him good and great,
And make the hero and the man complete.
Thy steady temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and C
And, pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.
‘Tis not in mortals to command success; but we’ll do more, Sempronius, we’ll deserve it.
And those that paint them truest praise them most.
Blesses his stars and thinks it luxury.
Much may be said on both sides.