Lady Warwick had also a son by her former husband, a very fine, spirited, and accomplished youth, for whose welfare the dying Addison showed peculiar concern; for, in the extremity of his disorder, having dismissed his physicians, and with them all hopes of recovery, he desired that the young Lord Warwick might be called to his bedside. He came--but life was now fast departing from his revered father-in-law, and he uttered not a word. After an afflicting pause, the young man said, "Dear sir, you sent for me; I believe, and I hope, that you have some commands; I shall hold them most sacred." Grasping his hand, Addison softly replied, "I sent for you, that you might see in what peace a Christian can die." He spoke with difficulty, and instantly expired. It is to this circumstance Mr. Tickell refers in his lines on Addison's death, where he has this passage: "He taught us how to live; and, oh! too high A price for knowledge, taught us how to die." DRAMATIS PERSONAE. _Cato_, Mr. Cooke. _Portius_, Mr. Siddons. _Marcus_, Mr. H. Johnston. _Sempronius_, Mr. Cory. _Juba_, Mr. Brunton. _Syphax_, Mr. Murray. _Lucius_, Mr. Claremont. _Decius_, Mr. Williams. _Lucia_, Miss Marriott. _Marcia_, Mrs. Litchfield. _Mutineers, Guards, etc._ _SCENE--The Governor's Palace in Utica._ CATO. ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I. _A Hall._ _Enter_ PORTIUS _and_ MARCUS. _Por._ The dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs, And heavily in clouds brings on the day, The great, the important day, big with the fate Of Cato and of Rome----Our father's death Would fill up all the guilt of civil war, And close the scene of blood. Already Caesar Has ravaged more than half the globe, and sees Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword: Should he go farther, numbers would be wanting To form new battles, and support his crimes. Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make Among your works! _Marc._ Thy steady temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Caesar, In the calm lights of mild philosophy; I'm tortured e'en to madness, when I think On the proud victor--ev'ry time he's named, Pharsalia rises to my view!--I see Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field, Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter; His horse's hoofs wet with patrician blood! Oh, Portius! is there not some chosen curse, Some hidden thunder in the stores of Heav'n, Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?