But ye stand there aloof, and not a word.
O good Seneca,
Rememberest thou thy days in Corsica?
The stoic letters of thine exile, writ
With Naso’s pang, and that exuberant page
To me, at the first tidings of recall.
I have it still, the letter, superscribed
Your most devoted slave. Was not that felt?
Had’st thou not cause? Now is the opportunity
Of my distress, now I stand to lose all,