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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530267" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Mr. Addison on His Tragedy of Cato</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Too long hath love engross'd Britannia's stage, <br>And sunk to softness all our tragic rage: <br>By that alone did empires fall or rise, <br>And fate depended on a fair-one's eyes: <br>The sweet infection, mixt with dangerous art, <br>Debas'd our manhood, while it sooth'd the heart. <br>You scorn to raise a grief thyself must blame, <br>Nor from our weakness steal a vulgar fame: <br>A patriot's fall may justly melt the mind, <br>And tears flow nobly, shed for all mankind. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">How do our souls with generous pleasure glow! <br>Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow, <br>When thy firm hero stands beneath the weight <br>Of all his sufferings venerably great; <br>Rome's poor remains still sheltering by his side, <br>With conscious virtue, and becoming pride! <br>The aged oak thus rears his head in air, <br>His sap exhausted, and his branches bare; <br>'Midst storms and earthquakes, he maintains his state, <br>Fixt deep in earth, and fasten'd by his weight</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His naked boughs still lend the shepherds aid, <br>And his old trunk projects an awful shade. <br>Amidst the joys triumphant peace bestows, <br>Our patriots sadden at his glorious woes; <br>Awhile they let the world's great business wait, <br>Anxious for Rome, and sigh for Cato's fate. <br>Here taught how ancient heroes rose to fame, <br>Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame, <br>Where states and senates well might lend an ear, <br>And kings and priests without a blush appear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">France boasts no more, but, fearful to engage, <br>Now first pays homage to her rival's stage, <br>Hastes to learn thee, and learning shall submit <br>Alike to British arms, and British wit: <br>No more she'll wonder, forc'd to do us right, <br>Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight. <br>Thy Oxford smiles this glorious work to see, <br>And fondly triumphs in a son like thee. <br>The senates, consuls, and the gods of Rome, <br>Like old acquaintance at their native home,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In thee we find: each deed, each word exprest, <br>And every thought that swell'd a Roman breast, <br>We trace each hint that could thy soul inspire <br>With Virgil's judgement, and with Lucan's fire; <br>We know thy worth, and, give us leave to boast, <br>We most admire, because we know thee most.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Tickell">Thomas Tickell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530267" data-title="To Mr. Addison on His Tragedy of Cato de Thomas Tickell" data-description="Too long hath love engross'd Britannia's stage, 
And sunk to softness all our tragic rage: 
By that alone did empires fall or rise, 
And fate depended on a fair-one's eyes: 
The sweet infection, mixt with dangerous art, 
Debas'd our manhood, while..."></div>
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