The Conductors of this Work print no Plays but those which they have seen acted. The Stage Directions are given from their own personal observations, during the most recent performances.
The instant a Character appears upon the Stage, the point of Entrance, as well as every subsequent change of Position, till its Exit, is noted, with a fidelity which may in all cases be relied on; the object being, to establish this Work as a Standard Guide to the Stage business, as now conducted on the London boards.
R. means Right; L. Left; R.D. Right Door; L.D. Left Door; S. E. Second Entrance; U. E. Upper Entrance; M.D. Middle Door. RELATIVE POSITIONS.
R. means Right; L. Left; C. Centre; R. C. Right of Centre; L. C. Left of Centre. The following view of the Stage with Five Performers in front, will, it is presumed, fully demonstrate the Relative Positions.
The Reader is supposed to be on the Stage,facing the Audience.
ORIGINAL PROLOGUE TO CATO,
WRITTEN BY MR. POPE, AND SPOKEN BY MR. WILKS.
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart,
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the tragic muse first trod the stage,
Commanding tears to stream through every age;
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying love we but our weakness show,
And wild ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause,
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and god-like Cato was :
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys;
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state!
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæsar 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Shew'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state,
As her dead father's rever'nd image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast,
The triumph ceas'd-tears gush'd from ev'ry eye,
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd
And honor'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons attend! Be worth like this approv'd, And shew you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued: Our scene precariously subsists too long On French translation and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourself; assert the stage, Be justly warm'd with your own native rage, Such Plays alone should please a British ear, As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.
SCENE I-A Hall in the Palace.
Enter PORCIUS and MARCUS, R.
Por. 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. (c.) Our father's death
Would fill up all the guilt of civil war,
And close the scene of blood. Already Cæsar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havock does ambition make
Among your works!
Mar. (L. c.) Thy steady temper, Porcius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy:
I'm tortur'd, even to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he's named,
Pharsalia rises to my view; I see
The insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field
Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaugh
O, Porcius, is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin !
Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,
And mix'd with too much horror to be envied.
How does the lustre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness!
His suff'rings shine, and spread a glory round him :
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
Mar. Who knows not this? But what can Cato do Against a world, a base, degenerate world,
That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæsar?
Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms
A poor epitome of Roman greatness,
And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs
A feeble army, and an empty senate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
By heavens, such virtues, join'd with such success,
Distract my very soal: our father's fortune
Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.
Por. Remember what our father oft has told us :
The ways of heaven are dark and intricate:
Our understanding traces them in vain ;
Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search,
Nor sees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confusion ends.
Mar. These are suggestions of a mind at ease:
O, Porcius, didst thou taste but half the griefs
That wring my soul, thou could'st not talk thus calmly.
Passion unpitied, and successless love,
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind
Por. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy rival:
But I must hide it; for I know thy temper.
Now, Marcus, now thy virtue's on the proof:
Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve,
And call up all thy father in thy soul:
To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart.
On this weak side, where most our nature fails,
Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son.
Mar. Alas, the counsel which I cannot take,
Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost
In high ambition, and a thirst of greatness;
'Tis second life, that grows into the soul,
Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse:
I feel it here: my resolution melts-
Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian Prince :
He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her;
But still the smother'd fondness burns within him:
The sense of honour and desire of fame
Drive the big passion back into his heart.-
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