_Sen._ Nay, good Thrasea; These be the last hours of my life: I’d say To you, my friends, what I have most at heart. And first rejoice with me that I depart With all my senses perfect, not as some, Tortured by pain and praying for release; Nor like a man, who walking in the dark, Comes to a brink upright, and steppeth over Unhesitatingly, because he knows not. Nor is my term much shortened, I shall die Like aged Socrates, and with his hope That the spirit doth not perish;—I mean not A senseless immortality of fame: That I shall have, but more I’ll have; I dream Of life in which I may be Seneca again, Seneca still. _Thr._ Now if thou couldst convince us, Seneca, of that, ’twere worthy thy last hour. Teach me to picture what thou thinkst to see, That land betwixt oblivion and regret; Where is’t? how is it? _Sen._ It lies not in the scope Of demonstration, Thrasea; but my heart Bears witness to it: the best that I could say Is in my books. What all mankind desires, The mind requires; what it requires believes: 2625 And calls it truth. I hold that one God made us, And at our death receives our spirits kindly: We shall meet elsewhere those whom we leave here. _Pr._ This will not comfort Romans: Nero again, And Tigellinus.... _Sen._ Why may there not be Distinction, Priscus, as old fables tell; Rewards for good, and punishments for ill? The myths are gross and brutal, but philosophy Finds reason in religion. _Thr._ Then the vulgar, ’Gainst whom you have waged your philosophic war, Hold the last truth. _Sen._ The sanction of all truth Lies in our common nature. A religion Based on the truth of what all men desire Must carry all before it. _Thr._ But you said Philosophy found reason in religion. What is your ground? _Sen._ My first is this, that else All were unjust. It needs a second life To set this even. _Thr._ You have not found in life Its own reward? _Sen._ Nay, I have not. _Thr._ I know not If ’tis not sadder, this profound impeachment Of God’s whole constitution as we see it, Than the belief that death’s our end of all. To live in conscious harmony with nature May satisfy our being; but religion Looks like the poetry which childhood makes 2650 To cloke its empty terrors, or bedizen Its painted idols: such is my persuasion. _Pr._ And mine. _Sen._ Ah, Priscus, thou art young. I once Looked forward into life with a proud heart, Nor saw the exigency and irony Of all-subduing Fate. Consider, Priscus, Whether your father’s virtue or Nero’s crimes Have found their recompense.