Aust. Look round, my son! This consecrated place
Contains the untimely ashes of thy grandsire.
With all the impious mockery of grief,
Here were they laid by the dire hand which sped him.
There stands his statue; were a glass before thee,
So would it give thee back thy outward self.
Theod. And may the Power, which fashion'd thus my outside,
With all his nobler ornaments of virtue
Sustain my soul! till generous emulation