offices.  They refused, whereupon she put herself into a fisher-boat she hired on the spot, and in that manner followed him from Sclavonia.  When she had come to Rome, Junia, the widow of Scribonianus, having one day, from the resemblance of their fortune, accosted her in the Emperor’s presence; she rudely repulsed her with these words, “I,” said she, “speak to thee, or give ear to any thing thou sayest! to thee in whose lap Scribonianus was slain, and thou art yet alive!” These words, with several other signs, gave her friends to understand that she would undoubtedly despatch herself, impatient of supporting her husband’s misfortune.  And Thrasea, her son-in-law, beseeching her not to throw away herself, and saying to her, “What! if I should run the same fortune that Caecina has done, would you that your daughter, my wife, should do the same?”—­“Would I?” replied she, “yes, yes, I would:  if she had lived as long, and in as good understanding with thee as I have done, with my husband.”  These answers made them more careful of her, and to have a more watchful eye to her proceedings.  One day, having said to those who looked to her:  “Tis to much purpose that you take all this pains to prevent me; you may indeed make me die an ill death, but to keep me from dying is not in your power”; she in a sudden phrenzy started from a chair whereon she sat, and with all her force dashed her head against the wall, by which blow being laid flat in a swoon, and very much wounded, after they had again with great ado brought her to herself:  “I told you,” said she, “that if you refused me some easy way of dying, I should find out another, how painful soever.”  The conclusion of so admirable a virtue was this:  her husband Paetus, not having resolution enough of his own to despatch himself, as he was by the emperor’s cruelty enjoined, one day, amongst others, after having first employed all the reasons and exhortations which she thought most prevalent to persuade him to it, she snatched the poignard he wore from his side, and holding it ready in her hand, for the conclusion of her admonitions; “Do thus, Paetus,” said she, and in the same instant giving herself a mortal stab in the breast, and then drawing it out of the wound, presented it to him, ending her life with this noble, generous, and immortal saying, “Paete, non dolet”—­having time to pronounce no more but those three never-to-be-forgotten words:  “Paetus, it is not painful.”

              “Casta suo gladium cum traderet Arria Paeto,
               Quern de visceribus traxerat ipsa suis
               Si qua fides, vulnus quod feci non dolet, inquit,
               Sed quod to facies, id mihi, Paete, dolet.”

["When the chaste Arria gave to Poetus the reeking sword she had drawn from her breast, ‘If you believe me,’ she said, ’Paetus, the wound I have made hurts not, but ’tis that which thou wilt make that hurts me.’”—–­Martial, i. 14.]

The action was much more noble in itself, and of a