As well might Heav'nly SOCRATES infuse His own wife temper, while he taught his morals, BRUTUS. Be not so modeft, VARIUS, nor fo courtly; Enough, enough, I am already cur'd, BRUTUS. 'Tis half a cure in love to wifh for one." Give me your hand, you'll march with me to-morrow, Where you will drown your fighs in founds of war, And turn your tend'reft thoughts on your poor country. [Exeunt BRUTUS and VARIUS. SECOND CHORUS. Of Athenian YOUTHS and VIRGINS. By MR. POPE. YOUTHS. The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breaft? VIRGINS. Love's flames the Gods approve; purer The Gods, and BRUTUS bend to love: But HYMEN's flames like stars unite, Chafte, as cold CYNTHIA'S virgin light, YOUTHS. What various joys on one attend, And finds a thousand grateful thoughts arife, What tender passions take their turns? His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns, CHORUS OF BOTH. Hence guilty joys, distastes, furmises, (Fires that scorch, yet dare not fhine) Hh ACT III. SCENE I. In the fame Vestibule. Enter BRUTUS, JUNIA, LUCILIUS. LUCILIUS. A Meffenger exprefs arriv'd from Rome, Is entring mournfully the palace gates; And, as he paffes, weeping all the way. BRUTUS. My mind forebodes; fpeak, is my PORTIA well? Enter MESSENGER, who gives a Letter to BRUTUS. MESSENGER. She is, Sir. BRUTUS. Then I hope to bear the worst. "My duty forces me to fend you news, [Reads. "Which, tho' you needs must know, I grieve to write. "Two hundred of the noblest rank in Rome "Profcrib'd, and murder'd: CICERO himself "Giv'n up by false OCTAVIUS to his foes." Good Heav'ns! to whom do ye dispose mankind? [Drops the Letter. Sad fate, indeed! So great a villainy Is moft furprizing, tho' 'tis done by them. JUNIA. Difmal indeed! but oh my dearest brother, [Weeps. Let not your tender mind be too much touch'd; Practise that patience which you now have taught me. CASSIUS is abfent, I am defolate, Yet Rome (you faid) muft take up all my thoughts. BRUTUS. And therefore 'tis for Rome I most lament, JUNIA. BRUTUS, be chear'd: her vital parts remain ; LUCILIUS. 'Tis nobly, truly faid; and you, bright JUNIA, Poffefs a foul, tho' in a fofter frame, Lofty enough to animate ev'n them. BRUTUS. She does, LUCILIUS; and were PORTIA here, But oh! my CICERO! who speaks thy praise, The mouth of fame with never-dying founds. JUNIA. How could OCTAVIUS confent to lose him, |