I have been taught to abase a proud spirit to the claps and hisses of the vulgar;--to smile on suitors who united the insults of a despicable pride to the endearments of a loathsome fondness;--to affect sprightliness with an aching head, and eyes from which tears were ready to gush;--to feign love with curses on my lips, and madness in my brain.

Who feels for me any esteem,--any tenderness?
Who will shed a tear over the nameless grave which will soon shelter from cruelty and scorn the broken heart of the poor Athenian girl?
But you, who alone have addressed her in her degradation with a voice of kindness and respect, farewell.

Sometimes think of me,--not with sorrow;--no; I could bear your ingratitude, but not your distress.

Yet, if it will not pain you too much, in distant days, when your lofty hopes and destinies are accomplished,--on the evening of some mighty victory,--in the chariot of some magnificent triumph,--think on one who loved you with that exceeding love which only the miserable can feel.
Think that, wherever her exhausted frame may have sunk beneath the sensibilities of a tortured spirit,--in whatever hovel or whatever vault she may have closed her eyes,--whatever strange scenes of horror and pollution may have surrounded her dying bed, your shape was the last that swam before her sight--your voice the last sound that was ringing in her ears.

Yet turn your face to me, Caesar.