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put an end to the troubles of this. If we were offered immortality on earth, who is there would accept so melancholy a gift ? What resource, what hope, what consolation would then be left us against the rigour of fortune, and the injustice of mankind?
Remorse—she ne'er forsakes us—
A bloodhound staunch, she tracks our rapid step
Through the wild labyrinth of youthful frenzy,
Unheard, perchance, until old age hath tamed us;
Then in our lair, when time hath chilled our joints,
And maim'd our hope of combat, or of flight,
We hear her deep mouthed bay, announcing all
Of wrath and woe and punishment that bides us.
Old Play.
A bloodhound staunch, she tracks our rapid step
Through the wild labyrinth of youthful frenzy,
Unheard, perchance, until old age hath tamed us;
Then in our lair, when time hath chilled our joints,
And maim'd our hope of combat, or of flight,
We hear her deep mouthed bay, announcing all
Of wrath and woe and punishment that bides us.
Old Play.
What art thou then to despise men, or what raises thee above them ? Thy services or thy virtues ? But how many obscure men more virtuous than thou, more laborious, more useful ? Thy birth ?—:We respect it: In thee we salute the shadow of thy ancestors; but is a shadow to pride itself on the homage paid to the body ? Thou wouldst have reason to pride thyself, if they gave thy name to thy ancestors, as they gave to the father of Cato the name of his son " The light ot' Rome." But what pride can a name inspire thee with which owes thee nothing, and for which thou art only indebted to chance ?
