BRUTUS.
My Sister weeping! Tho' her Reason governs,
I judge her Grief for Cassius, by my own,
For Portia's Absence sits upon my Heart:
Nor need I blush to bear the tender Burthen,
So much she merits, and so well she loves.
But publick Cares must silence private Grief;
Since ev'ry Hour some fresh Expresses tell
New fatal Turns in Rome, portending ill:
The wav'ring Lepidus (perceiving Cæsar
Had cunningly agreed with Antony)
Tho' with a greater Army, yields to them.

VARIUS.
What says the noble Brutus?—Junia gone!

BRUTUS.
Is Varius deaf to Dangers of his Country?

VARIUS.
Forbid it Jove! But Junia's Melancholy,
So very moving, took up all my Thoughts.

BRUTUS.
Too moving, I'm afraid.

VARIUS.
Indeed my Lord,
Had you perceiv'd the Charms of weeping Beauty,
That gorgeous Dress which Sorrow had put on,
(Out-shining all the Gaiety of Youth,
The pleasing Smiles of Mirth, and Airs of Joy)
Your gentle Nature would be mov'd like mine.

BRUTUS.
Why you have drawn a Picture, my young Varius,
Like any Poet, nay like any Lover.
What, does that word draw forth a guilty Blush?
Be not alarm'd, no more than I am, Varius;
Junia's strict Virtue and known Love to Cassius,
Fully prevent my Fears, unless for you;

Whose Father's wond'rous Merit, and your own,
Give me a soft Concern, as for a Son.
She is above your very vainest Hopes:
Not the most tempting Charms of Wit, or Worth,
Most graceful Forms, or dazling shew of Greatness,
Can make Impression on a Mind like her's;
Who, tho' my Sister, forces Praises from me.

VARIUS.
Too much, alas, I join in Junia's Praise:
My eager Thoughts still fly before your Words,
And find them short, far short of Junia's due.

BRUTUS.
Then whence can rise self-flatt'ring Expectation?
Can Varius reason thus against himself,
And act quite contrary to what he thinks?
Oh what is Man, when blinded with his Passion!

VARIUS.
Why just that Creature Heaven thought fit to make him.
You are, indeed, exempt from all our Follies,

And rest serene within: Yet pity others!
Behold, I own my undisguis'd Offence,
And freely open all my Thoughts to you;
To you, who are a very God to Varius,
Who can at once forgive, and cure my Weakness.

BRUTUS.
But only by Despair: without that help,
There is no God himself can give you ease:
A sharp, I must confess, but certain Cure.
Our Stoical Philosophy instructs us,
A wise Man is above the reach of Jove,
Yet hardly 'scapes the worst of Demons, Love.
But since good Junia's Soul is firm as Fate,
Be yours so too. What helps it to be learn'd?
Or to be wise in Bus'ness of the World?
Nay, where would be the good to rule that World,
Without an inward Pow'r to govern Passion?
The Man disturb'd within, is but a Player;
May act abroad, perhaps, some Hero's Part,
But sinks at home, a low, uneasy Slave.

VARIUS.
To teach is easy; but to learn is hard.
As well might Heav'nly Socrates infuse
His own wise Temper while he taught his Morals,
As Brutus raise my Soul to equal his.

BRUTUS.
Be not so modest, Varius, nor so courtly;
Brutus is not your Mistress, but your Friend.
The Roman Virtue shines so bright in you,
Nothing is wanting to make up Perfection
But your Command o'er this unfruitful Passion.
Love, ev'n when most successful, makes not happy.
Sometimes indeed, Pleasure beyond expression
Possesses all at once both Mind and Body,
Confounding Soul and Sense with height of Rapture.
But what. Allays o'erbalance all this Joy!
Frequent Disquiets, Doubts, and Jealousies;
Sometimes the Pains of Absence, and sometimes
Amidst the Bliss, a dismal Dread to lose it.
At best, the Pleasure is but intermitting,

While the uneasy Fever never ceases.
But Love, when slighted, is intolerable:
Who courts the fairest Tyrant, is a Fool,
And lives a Martyr in the meanest Cause.

VARIUS.
Enough, enough, I am already cur'd,
At least, till Junia is beheld again.

BRUTUS.
'Tis half a Cure in Love to wish for one.
Give me your Hand, you'll march with me to Morrow;
Where you will drown your Sighs in Sounds of War,
And turn your tend'rest Thoughts on your poor Country. (Exeunt Brutus and Varius.

Second CHORUS. Of Athenian Youths and Virgins. By Mr. POPE. YOUTHS.
  O Tyrant Love! hast thou possest
  The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous Breast?
  Wisdom and Wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but soften us to feel thy Flame.
  Varius with Blushes owns he loves,
  And Brutus tenderly reproves.
  Why, Virtue, dost thou blame Desire,
    Which Nature has imprest?
  Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
    The mild and gen'rous Breast?

VIRGINS.
  Love's purer Flames the Gods approve;
  The Gods, and Brutus bend to Love:
  Brutus for absent Portia sighs,
And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's Eyes.
  What is loose Love? A wand'ring Fire,
  A transient Fit of fond Desire.
  But Hymen's Flames like Stars unite,
    And burn for ever one;
  Chaste, as cold Cynthia's Virgin Light,
    Productive as the Sun. YOUTHS.
  What various Joys on One attend,
  As Son, as Father, Husband, Friend?
  Whether his hoary Sire he spies,
And finds a thousand grateful Thoughts arise,
  Or meets his Spouse's fonder Eye,
  Or views his smiling Progeny;

What tender Passions take theit turns?
  What home-felt Raptures move?
His Heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
  With Rev'rence, Hope, and Love. CHORUS of Both.
Hence guilty Joys, Distastes, Surmises,
False Oaths, false Tears, Deceits, Disguises,
Dangers, Doubts, Delays, Surprises,
  (Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine)
Purest Love's unwasting Treasure,
Constant Faith, fair Hope, long Leisure,
Days of Ease, and Nights of Pleasure,
  Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

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