Book I, Epigram 78 (Ker)

When wasting disease choked his guiltless throat, and o'er his very face crept black contagion, Festus, dry-eyed himself, spake to his weeping friends, and purposed to pass to the lake of Styx. Howbeit he marred not his righteous face with secret poison, nor with slow starvation tortured his sad fate; but his sacred life he closed by a Roman's death, and set free his soul by a nobler end. This death may Fame prize more than great Cato's doom: Caesar was this man's friend.