p>
em>Welcome, my son! here lay him down, my friends,
br>
Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure
br>
The bloody corpse, and count those glorious wounds.
br>
-- How beautiful is death, when earn'd by virtue!
br>
Who would not be that youth? what pity is it
br>
That we can die but once to serve our country!
br>
-- Why sits this sadness on your brows, my friends?
br>
I should have blushed if Cato's house had stood
br>
Secure, and flourished in a civil war.
br>
-- Portius, behold thy brother, and remember
br>
Thy life is not thy own, when Rome demands it.
/em>
br>
-- Cato, upon receiving the corpse of his son, Marcus, in Joseph
Addison's 1713 play,
Cato.