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_ ACT THE THIRD. SCENE I.
[A Chamber.]
[Enter MARCUS and PORTIUS.]
Marc.
Thanks to my stars, I have not ranged about
The wilds of life, ere I could find a friend;
Nature first pointed out my Portius to me,
And early taught me, by her secret force,
To love thy person, ere I knew thy merit,
Till what was instinct, grew up into friendship.
Por.
Marcus, the friendships of the world are oft
Confed'racies in vice, or leagues of pleasure;
Ours has severest virtue for its basis,
And such a friendship ends not but with life.
Marc.
Portius, thou know'st my soul in all its weakness;
Then, pr'ythee, spare me on its tender side;
Indulge me but in love, my other passions
Shall rise and fall by virtue's nicest rules.
Por.
When love's well-timed, 'tis not a fault to love.
The strong, the brave, the virtuous, and the wise,
Sink in the soft captivity together.
Marc.
Alas, thou talk'st like one that never felt
Th' impatient throbs and longings of a soul,
That pants and reaches after distant good!
A lover does not live by vulgar time;
Believe me, Portius, in my Lucia's absence
Life hangs upon me, and becomes a burden;
And yet, when I behold the charming maid,
I'm ten times more undone; while hope and fear,
And grief and rage, and love, rise up at once,
And with variety of pain distract me.
Por.
What can thy Portius do to give thee help?
Marc.
Portius, thou oft enjoy'st the fair one's presence;
Then undertake my cause, and plead it to her
With all the strength and heat of eloquence
Fraternal love and friendship can inspire.
Tell her thy brother languishes to death,
And fades away, and withers in his bloom;
That he forgets his sleep, and loathes his food;
That youth, and health, and war, are joyless to him;
Describe his anxious days, and restless nights,
And all the torments that thou see'st me suffer.
Por.
Marcus, I beg thee give me not an office,
That suits with me so ill. Thou know'st my temper.
Marc.
Wilt thou behold me sinking in my woes,
And wilt thou not reach out a friendly arm,
To raise me from amidst this plunge of sorrows?
Por.
Marcus, thou canst not ask what I'd refuse;
But here, believe me, I've a thousand reasons----
Marc.
I know thou'lt say my passion's out of season,
That Cato's great example and misfortunes
Should both conspire to drive it from my thoughts.
But what's all this to one that loves like me?
O Portius, Portius, from my soul I wish
Thou did'st but know thyself what 'tis to love!
Then wouldst thou pity and assist thy brother.
Por.
What should I do? If I disclose my passion,
Our friendship's at an end: if I conceal it,
The world will call me false to a friend and brother.
[Aside.]
Marc.
But see, where Lucia, at her wonted hour,
Amid the cool of yon high marble arch,
Enjoys the noon-day breeze! Observe her, Portius;
That face, that shape, those eyes, that heav'n of beauty!
Observe her well, and blame me if thou canst.
Por.
She sees us, and advances----
Marc.
I'll withdraw,
And leave you for a while. Remember, Portius,
Thy brother's life depends upon thy tongue.
[Exit.]
[Enter LUCIA.]
Lucia.
Did not I see your brother Marcus here?
Why did he fly the place, and shun my presence?
Por.
Oh, Lucia, language is too faint to show
His rage of love; it preys upon his life;
He pines, he sickens, he despairs, he dies!
Lucia.
How wilt thou guard thy honour, in the shock
Of love and friendship! Think betimes, my Portius,
Think how the nuptial tie, that might ensure
Our mutual bliss, would raise to such a height
Thy brother's griefs, as might perhaps destroy him.
Por.
Alas, poor youth! What dost thou think, my Lucia?
His gen'rous, open, undesigning heart
Has begg'd his rival to solicit for him!
Then do not strike him dead with a denial.
Lucia.
No, Portius, no; I see thy sister's tears,
Thy father's anguish, and thy brother's death,
In the pursuit of our ill-fated loves;
And, Portius, here I swear, to Heav'n I swear,
To Heav'n, and all the powers that judge mankind,
Never to mix my plighted hands with thine,
While such a cloud of mischief hangs upon us,
But to forget our loves, and drive thee out
From all my thoughts--as far as I am able.
Por.
What hast thou said? I'm thunderstruck--recall
Those hasty words, or I am lost for ever.
Lucia.
Has not the vow already pass'd my lips?
The gods have heard it, and 'tis seal'd in heav'n.
May all the vengeance that was ever pour'd
On perjured heads, o'erwhelm me if I break it!
Por.
Fix'd in astonishment, I gaze upon thee,
Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav'n,
Who pants for breath and stiffens, yet alive,
In dreadful looks, a monument of wrath!
Lucia.
Think, Portius, think thou see'st thy dying brother
Stabb'd at his heart, and all besmear'd with blood,
Storming at Heav'n and thee! Thy awful sire
Sternly demands the cause, the accursed cause,
That robs him of his son: poor Marcia trembles,
Then tears her hair, and, frantic in her griefs,
Calls out on Lucia. What could Lucia answer,
Or how stand up in such a scene of sorrow?
Por. To my confusion and eternal grief,
I must approve the sentence that destroys me.
Lucia.
Portius, no more; thy words shoot through my heart,
Melt my resolves, and turn me all to love.
Why are those tears of fondness in thy eyes?
Why heaves thy heart? Why swells thy soul with sorrow?
It softens me too much--Farewell, my Portius!
Farewell, though death is in the word,--for ever!
Por.
Stay, Lucia, stay! What dost thou say? For ever?
Thou must not go; my soul still hovers o'er thee,
And can't get loose.
Lucia.
If the firm Portius shake,
To hear of parting, think what Lucia suffers!
Por.
'Tis true, unruffled and serene, I've met
The common accidents of life, but here
Such an unlook'd-for storm of ills falls on me.
It beats down all my strength--I cannot bear it.
We must not part.
Lucia.
What dost thou say? Not part!
Hast thou forgot the vow that I have made?
Are not there heavens, and gods, that thunder o'er us?
--But see, thy brother Marcus bends this way;
I sicken at the sight. Once more, farewell.
Farewell, and know, thou wrong'st me, if thou think'st
Ever was love or ever grief like mine.
[Exit LUCIA.]
[Enter MARCUS.]
Marc.
Portius, what hopes? How stands she? am I doom'd
To life or death?
Por. What wouldst thou have me say?
Marc.
What means this pensive posture? Thou appear'st
Like one amazed and terrified.
Por.
I've reason.
Marc.
Thy downcast looks, and thy disorder'd thoughts,
Tell me my fate. I ask not the success
My cause has found.
Por.
I'm grieved I undertook it.
Marc.
What, does the barbarous maid insult my heart,
My aching heart, and triumph in my pains?
That I could cast her from my thoughts for ever!
Por.
Away! you're too suspicious in your griefs;
Lucia, though sworn never to think of love,
Compassionates your pains, and pities you.
Marc.
Compassionates my pains, and pities me!
What is compassion, when 'tis void of love?
Fool that I was, to choose so cold a friend
To urge my cause!--Compassionates my pains!
Pr'ythee what art, what rhet'ric didst thou use
To gain this mighty boon?--She pities me!
To one that asks the warm returns of love,
Compassion's cruelty, 'tis scorn, 'tis death--
Por.
Marcus, no more; have I deserved this treatment?
Marc.
What have I said? Oh! Portius, Oh, forgive me!
A soul exasperated in ills, falls out
With every thing--its friend, itself--but hah!
[Shout.]
What means that shout, big with the sounds of war?
What new alarm?
Por.
A second, louder yet,
Swells in the wind, and comes more full upon us.
Marc.
Oh, for some glorious cause to fall in battle!
Lucia, thou hast undone me: thy disdain
Has broke my heart; 'tis death must give me ease.
Por.
Quick let us hence. Who knows if Cato's life
Stands sure? Oh, Marcus, I am warm'd; my heart
Leaps at the trumpet's voice, and burns for glory.
[Exeunt.] _
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