faction, vice, and fortune crost,
Shall find the gen'rous labour was not lost. [_Exeunt._

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.

_A Chamber._

CATO _solus, sitting in a thoughtful Posture; in
his Hand, Plato's Book on the Immortality of
the Soul. A drawn Sword on the Table by him._

_Cato._ It must be so--Plato, thou reason'st well--
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis Heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass?
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us
(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works), He must delight in virtue;
And that which He delights in must be happy.
But when, or where?--this world was made for Caesar:
I'm weary of conjectures--this must end them.
[_Laying his hand upon his sword._
Thus am I doubly arm'd: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness, that hangs upon me?
This lethargy, that creeps through all my senses?
Nature, oppress'd and harass'd out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her,
That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,
Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An offering lit for Heav'n. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them,
Indiff'rent in his choice to sleep or die.

_Enter_ PORTIUS.

But, hah! who's this? my son! Why this intrusion?
Were not my orders that I would be private?
Why am I disobey'd?

_Por._ Alas, my father!
What means this sword, this instrument of death?
Let me convey it hence.

_Cato._ Rash youth, forbear!

_Por._ Oh, let the pray'rs, th' entreaties of y