POLEMIUS. Dost thou not remember also That thou art my son? Bethink thee That the great Numerianus, Our good emperor, has given me The grand government of Rome As chief senator of the city, And with that imperial burden The whole world too--all the kingdoms, All the provinces subjected To its varied, vast dominion. Know'st thou not, from Alexandria, From my native land, my birth-place, Where on many a proud escutcheon My ancestral fame is written, That he brought me here, the weight Of his great crown to bear with him, And that Rome upon my entry Gave to me a recognition That repaid the debt it owed me, Since the victories were admitted Which in glorious alternation By my sword and pen were given her? Through what vanity, what folly, Wilt thou not enjoy thy birth-right As my son and heir, indulging Solely in these idle whimseys?-- CHRYSANTHUS. Sir, the state in which you see me, This secluded room, this stillness, Do not spring from want of feeling, Or indifference to your wishes. 'T is my natural disposition; For I have no taste to mingle In the vulgar vain pursuits Of the courtier crowds ambitious. And if living to myself here More of true enjoyment gives me, Why would you desire me seek for That which must my joys diminish? Let this time of sadness pass, Let these hours of lonely vigil, Then for fame and its applauses, Which no merit of my own, But my father's name may bring me. POLEMIUS. Would it not, my son, be fitter That you should enjoy those plaudits In the fresh and blooming spring-time Of your life, and to hereafter Leave the loneliness and vigil? ESCARPIN. Let me tell a little story Which will make the whole thing simple:-- A bad painter bought a house, Altogether a bad business, For the house itself was bad: He however was quite smitten With his purchase, and would show it To a friend of his, keen-witted, But bad also: when they entered, The first room was like a kitchen, Black and bad:--"This room, you see, sir, Now is bad, but just permit me First to have it whitewashed over, Then shall my own hand with pictures Paint the walls from floor to ceiling, Then you 'll see how bright 't will glisten".-- To him thus his friend made answer, Smiling archly: "Yes, 't will glisten, But if you would paint it first, And then whitewash o'er the pictures, The effect would be much better".-- Now 's the time for you, my lord, To lay on the shining pigment: On that brilliant ground hereafter Will the whitewash fall more fitly, For, in fine, the poorest painting Is improved by time's slow finger. CHRYSANTHUS. Sir, I say, that in obedience To your precepts, to your wishes, I will strive from this day forward So to act, that you will think me Changed into another being. [Exit.