Thrasea.

I long doubted Whether to come upon an invitation Written before these troubles.

Sen. You did well Not to desert me. Fannia too shall comfort My grieved Paullina.—Here is the best wine Of all my vineyards: drink to my long journey:— But first remember solemnly our friends Who have already died to-day: I pour This cup to them, and specially must name My nephew Lucan.

Thr. ’Tis an ancient custom.

Sen. (offering to Thrasea). And should be kept.

Thr. (taking and sprinkling). I’ll name the gentle Piso.

PRISCUS (taking from Thrasea).

This to Epicharis. (Sprinkling.)

Thr. Well spoken, son. No better wish than that we all may die Bravely as she.

Sen. So be it! Now let us sit. (They sit.) And I between (sitting). I would so spend this hour,. That ye shall not forget it in after-days, When ye think of me. ’Tis the last time, friends, That ye will sup with me.

Pr. Nay, say not so: I trust you have escaped.

Sen. Look on yon sun: An hour hence he will set; and now he sinks Smiling eternal promises. Ye both Shall see him rise, but I—I shall not see it. This tree shall hang its branches, and another May sit and comfort his poetic sadness. As I have done, only not I: I only Not here ... not there, where I have been: all things Have hitherto existed with me, henceforth All will exist without me.

Pr. Have more hope.

Sen. Nay, it is so; what else could Cæsar mean?

Thr. Your answer may convince him.

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: 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 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.

Pr. If Thrasea’s heart Is comforted by virtue, sir, and Nero Made wretched by his crime ...

Sen. Then put it thus: If any were to make a tragedy Of these events, how would it pass or please, If Nero lived on at the end unpunished, Triumphing still o’er good?

Thr. Yes, Seneca: But see you make not now your god of the stage The God of Nature. Our true tragedy Is just this outward riddle, and the god That mends all, comes not in pat at his cue On a machine, but liveth in our hearts Resolving evil faster than it falls, As the sun melts the snow.

Sen. ’Tis not enough, Thrasea, ’tis not enough: there must be more.

* * * * *

Hear you a tramping? That is Cæsar’s men: They will surround the garden. Come aside.

(Comes to front with Thrasea.)

Stand by me, Thrasea, to the last. I would not Slur the last act of life. Be thou my witness Of word and deed.

Enter Paullina with Fannia, who goes to Priscus.