ARRUNTIUS. Times! the men, The men are not the same: ’tis we are base, Poor, and degenerate from the exalted strain Of our great fathers. Where is now the soul Of god-like Cato? he, that durst be good, When Cæsar durst be evil; and had power, As not to live his slave, to die his master? Or where’s the constant Brutus, that being proof Against all charm of benefits, did strike So brave a blow into the monster’s heart That sought unkindly to captive his country? O, they are fled the light! Those mighty spirits Lie raked up with their ashes in their urns, And not a spark of their eternal fire Glows in a present bosom. All’s but blaze, Flashes and smoke, wherewith we labour so, There’s nothing Roman in us; nothing good, Gallant, or great: ’tis true that Cordus says, “Brave Cassius was the last of all that race.” Drusus passes over the stage, attended by Haterius, etc. SABINUS. Stand by! lord Drusus. HATERIUS. The emperor’s son! give place. SILIUS. I like the prince well. ARRUNTIUS. A riotous youth; There’s little hope of him. SABINUS. That fault his age Will, as it grows, correct. Methinks he bears Himself each day more nobly than other; And wins no less on men’s affections, Than doth his father lose. Believe me, I love him; And chiefly for opposing to Sejanus. SILIUS. And I, for gracing his young kinsmen so, The sons of prince Germanicus: it shews A gallant clearness in him, a straight mind, That envies not, in them, their father’s name. ARRUNTIUS. His name was, while he lived, above all envy; And, being dead, without it. O, that man! If there were seeds of the old virtue left, They lived in him. SILIUS. He had the fruits, Arruntius, More than the seeds: Sabinus, and myself Had means to know him within; and can report him. We were his followers, he would call us friends; He was a man most like to virtue; in all, And every action, nearer to the gods, Than men, in nature; of a body as fair As was his mind; and no less reverend In face, than fame: he could so use his state, Tempering his greatness with his gravity, As it avoided all self-love in him, And spite in others. What his funerals lack’d In images and pomp, they had supplied With honourable sorrow, soldiers’ sadness, A kind of silent mourning, such, as men, Who know no tears, but from their captives, use To shew in so great losses. CORDUS. I thought once, Considering their forms, age, manner of deaths, The nearness of the places where they fell, To have parallel’d him with great Alexander: For both were of best feature, of high race, Year’d but to thirty, and, in foreign lands, By their own people alike made away.