I see, O judges, that in this Publius Sulla there is nothing worthy of hatred, and many
 circumstances deserving our pity. For he does not now, O judges, flee to you as a suppliant for
 the sake of warding off calamity from himself, but to prevent his whole family and name from
 being branded with the stigma of nefarious baseness. For as for himself, even if he be acquitted
 by your decision, what honours has he, what comfort has he for the rest of his life, in which he
 can find delight or enjoyment? His house, I suppose, will be adorned; the images of his
 ancestors will be displayed; he himself will resume his ornaments and his usual dress. All these
 things, O judges, are lost to him; all the insignia and ornaments of his family, and his name,
 and his honour, were lost by the calamity of that one decision. But he is anxious not to be
 called the destroyer, the betrayer, the enemy of his country; he is fearful of leaving such
 disgrace to a family of such renown; he is anxious that this unhappy child may not be called the
 son of a conspirator, a criminal and a traitor. He fears for this boy, who is much dearer to him
 than his own life, anxious, though he cannot leave him the undiminished inheritance of his
 honours, at all events not to leave him the undying recollection of his infamy. This little child entreats you, O judges, to allow him occasionally to
 congratulate his father, if not with his fortunes unimpaired, at least to congratulate him in
 his affliction. The roads to the courts of justice and to the forum are better known to that
 unhappy boy, than the roads to his playground or to his school. I am contending now, O judges,
 not for the life of Publius Sulla, but for his burial. His life was taken from him at the former
 trial; we are now striving to prevent his body from being cast out. For what has he left which
 need detain him in this life? or what is there to make any one think such an existence life at
 all? 
 Lately, Publius Sulla was a man of such consideration in the state, that no one thought
 himself superior to him either in honour, or in influence, or in good fortune. Now, stripped of
 all his dignity, he does not seek to recover what has been taken away from him; but he does
 entreat you, O judge; not to take from him the little which fortune has left him
 in his disasters,—namely, the permission to bewail his calamities in company with his parent,
 with his children, with his brother; and with his friends. It
 would be becoming for even you yourself, O Torquatus, to be by this time satisfied with the
 miseries of my client. Although you had taken nothing from Sulla except the consulship, yet you
 ought to be content with that for it was a contest for honour, and not enmity, which originally
 induced you to take up this cause. But now that, together with his honour, everything else has
 been taken from him,—now that he is desolate, crushed by this miserable and grievous fortune,
 what is there which you can wish for more? Do you wish to deprive him of the enjoyment of the
 light of day, full as it is to him of tears and grief, in which he now lives amid the greatest
 grief and torment? He would gladly give it up, if you would release him from the foul imputation
 of this most odious crime. Do you seek to banish him as an enemy, when, if you were really
 hard-hearted, you would derive greater enjoyment from seeing his miseries than from hearing of
 them?