_Sem._ Curse on the stripling! how he apes his sire! Ambitiously sententious--But I wonder Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian genius Is well disposed to mischief, were he prompt And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd, And every moment quicken'd to the course. Cato has used me ill; he has refused His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows. Besides, his baffled arms, and ruin'd cause, Are bars to my ambition. Caesar's favour, That show'rs down greatness on his friends, will raise me To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato, I claim, in my reward, his captive daughter. But Syphax comes---- _Enter_ SYPHAX. _Syph._ Sempronius, all is ready; I've sounded my Numidians, man by man, And find them ripe for a revolt: they all Complain aloud of Cato's discipline, And wait but the command to change their master. _Sem._ Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste; Ev'n while we speak, our conqueror comes on, And gathers ground upon us every moment. Alas! thou know'st not Caesar's active soul, With what a dreadful course he rushes on From war to war. In vain has nature form'd Mountains and oceans t'oppose his passage; He bounds o'er all. One day more Will set the victor thund'ring at our gates. But, tell me, hast thou yet drawn o'er young Juba? That still would recommend thee more to Caesar, And challenge better terms. _Syph._ Alas! he's lost! He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full Of Cato's virtues--But I'll try once more (For every instant I expect him here) If yet I can subdue those stubborn principles Of faith and honour, and I know not what, That have corrupted his Numidian temper, And struck th' infection into all his soul. _Sem._ Be sure to press upon him every motive. Juba's surrender, since his father's death, Would give up Afric into Caesar's hands, And make him lord of half the burning zone. _Syph._ But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious; Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern Our frauds, unless they're cover'd thick with art. _Sem._ Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal My thoughts in passion ('tis the surest way); I'll bellow out for Rome, and for my country, And mouth at Caesar, till I shake the senate. Your cold hypocrisy's a stale device, A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in earnest, Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury! _Syph._ In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs, And teach the wily African deceit. _Sem._ Once more be sure to try thy skill on Juba. Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste; Oh, think what anxious moments pass between The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods! Oh, 'tis a dreadful interval of time, Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death! Destruction hangs on every word we speak, On every thought, till the concluding stroke Determines all, and closes our design. [_Exit._