The man who merits more than Tully said
Of his own Roscius, that the histrion’s power
Was but a leaf amid his garland wreath.
His swaying spirit ruled the magic hour,
But his vast virtues knew no day, no death.
He seems not now, but is. And I do know,
Or think I do, what meaning from those lips
Would break; and on that bold and manly brow
There hangs a light that knows not an eclipse,
The light of a true soul. If art can give