_Lucia._ Why will you fight against so sweet a passion, And steel your heart to such a world of charms? _Marcia._ How, Lucia! wouldst thou have me sink away In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love, When ev'ry moment Cato's life's at stake? Caesar comes arm'd with terror and revenge, And aims his thunder at my father's head. Should not the sad occasion swallow up My other cares? _Lucia._ Why have I not this constancy of mind, Who have so many griefs to try its force? Sure, Nature form'd me of her softest mould, Enfeebled all my soul with tender passions, And sunk me ev'n below my own weak sex: Pity and love, by turns, oppress my heart. _Marcia._ Lucia, disburden all thy cares on me, And let me share thy most retired distress. Tell me, who raises up this conflict in thee? _Lucia._ I need not blush to name them, when I tell thee They're Marcia's brothers, and the sons of Cato. _Marcia._ They both behold thee with their sister's eyes, And often have reveal'd their passion to me. But tell me, which of them is Lucia's choice? _Lucia._ Suppose 'twere Portius, could you blame my choice?-- Oh, Portius, thou hast stolen away my soul! Marcus is over warm, his fond complaints Have so much earnestness and passion in them, I hear him with a secret kind of horror, And tremble at his vehemence of temper. _Marcia._ Alas, poor youth! How will thy coldness raise Tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom! I dread the consequence. _Lucia._ You seem to plead Against your brother Portius. _Marcia._ Heav'n forbid. Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover, The same compassion would have fall'n on him. _Lucia._ Was ever virgin love distress'd like mine! Portius himself oft falls in tears before me As if he mourn'd his rival's ill success; Then bids me hide the motions of my heart, Nor show which way it turns--so much he fears The sad effect that it will have on Marcus. _Marcia._ Let us not, Lucia, aggravate our sorrows, But to the gods submit the event of things. Our lives, discolour'd with our present woes, May still grow bright, and smile with happier hours. So the pure limpid stream, when foul with stains Of rushing torrents and descending rains, Works itself clear, and, as it runs, refines, Till, by degrees, the floating mirror shines; Reflects each flower that on the border grows, And a new heav'n in its fair bosom shows. [_Exeunt._ ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I. _The Senate sitting._ _Flourish._ _Enter_ CATO.