Then what divine and future things they see! 
Which makes it most apparent whence they are,
And what they shall hereafter be, declare.’ 
This noble speech the dying Cyrus made. 
Me (Scipio) shall no argument persuade, 890
Thy grandsire, and his brother, to whom Fame
Gave, from two conquer’d parts o’ th’world, their name,
Nor thy great grandsire, nor thy father Paul,
Who fell at Cannae against Hannibal;
Nor I (for ’tis permitted to the aged
To boast their actions) had so oft engaged
In battles, and in pleadings, had we thought,
That only fame our virtuous actions bought;
’Twere better in soft pleasure and repose
Ingloriously our peaceful eyes to close:  900
Some high assurance hath possess’d my mind,
After my death an happier life to find. 
Unless our souls from the immortals came,
What end have we to seek immortal fame? 
All virtuous spirits some such hope attends,
Therefore the wise his days with pleasure ends. 
The foolish and short-sighted die with fear,
That they go nowhere, or they know not where. 
The wise and virtuous soul, with clearer eyes,
Before she parts, some happy port descries. 910
My friends, your fathers I shall surely see: 
Nor only those I loved, or who loved me,
But such as before ours did end their days,
Of whom we hear, and read, and write their praise. 
This I believe; for were I on my way,
None should persuade me to return, or stay: 
Should some god tell me that I should be born
And cry again, his offer I would scorn;
Asham’d, when I have ended well my race,
To be led back to my first starting-place. 920
And since with life we are more grieved than joy’d,
We should be either satisfied or cloy’d: 
Yet will I not my length of days deplore,
As many wise and learn’d have done before: 
Nor can I think such life in vain is lent,
Which for our country and our friends is spent. 
Hence from an inn, not from my home, I pass,
Since Nature meant us here no dwelling-place. 
Happy when I, from this turmoil set free,
That peaceful and divine assembly see:  930
Not only those I named I there shall greet,
But my own gallant virtuous Cato meet. 
Nor did I weep, when I to ashes turn’d
His belov’d body, who should mine have burn’d. 
I in my thoughts beheld his soul ascend,
Where his fixed hopes our interview attend: 
Then cease to wonder that I feel no grief
From age, which is of my delights the chief. 
My hopes if this assurance hath deceived
(That I man’s soul immortal have believed), 940
And if I err, no power shall dispossess
My thoughts of that expected happiness,
Though some minute philosophers pretend,
That with our days our pains and pleasures end.