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“And now (admiring that proſpect)
To Rome this ſpeech he did direct.
O ſeate of Gods! could this men ſo
Forſake thee, ere they ſaw a foe?
If thou canſt not, what Citty can
Deſerue to be fought for by man?
Well haue the higher powers repreſt,
The humors of the armed Eaſt,
From ioyning with the Hungars ſtout
And all that fierce outragious rout
Of Dakes, of Getes, and Sarmatans,
From bringing downe their bloudy bands
To thee (poore Rome) by Fortune ſpar'd
Whom fearefull Pompey durſt not gaurd.
So weakely mand, more bleſt art farre
With ciuill then with Forraigne warre.
Thus ſaid, forthwith he did inveſt
The Citty, then with feares poſſeſt:
For ſure they thought, that (in his ire)
All should haue beene conſum'd with fire,
And Temples ſhould to ruine runne,
As ſoone as hee the walles had wonne.
Such was the meaſure of their fright,
His will they conſtru'd by his might.
And in ſuch ſudden mazements weare,
That they their ſacred rites forbeare.
The common ſort to ſportings bent,
Their merry tunes turn'd to lament:
No ſpleen they had, their ſprights were ſpent
The Roman Fathers reuerend troope
In Phabus Pallace fitting, droope:
Not thither called at an houre,
By order of the Senates powre.
No Conſuls with their preſence grace
Their ſacred ſeates in ſupreme place.
Nor next to them the lawes to ſway
The Prator ſate in his array.
No Coches at the Senate gate,
That thither bring the Peeres of ſtate.
Caſar alone was all in all,
His priuate voyce the Court doth thrall.
The Fathers to his heſts giue way,
Rady his pleasure to obay.
Whether he Monarchy deſire,
Or would to ſacred rites aſpire:
Or liues of Senators would waſt,
Or them into exile would caſt.
But he (more modeſt and more milde)
Did blush his power ſhould be defil'd
More to command (with threatning feare)
Then well the Roman ſtate could beare.”
― Civil War
To Rome this ſpeech he did direct.
O ſeate of Gods! could this men ſo
Forſake thee, ere they ſaw a foe?
If thou canſt not, what Citty can
Deſerue to be fought for by man?
Well haue the higher powers repreſt,
The humors of the armed Eaſt,
From ioyning with the Hungars ſtout
And all that fierce outragious rout
Of Dakes, of Getes, and Sarmatans,
From bringing downe their bloudy bands
To thee (poore Rome) by Fortune ſpar'd
Whom fearefull Pompey durſt not gaurd.
So weakely mand, more bleſt art farre
With ciuill then with Forraigne warre.
Thus ſaid, forthwith he did inveſt
The Citty, then with feares poſſeſt:
For ſure they thought, that (in his ire)
All should haue beene conſum'd with fire,
And Temples ſhould to ruine runne,
As ſoone as hee the walles had wonne.
Such was the meaſure of their fright,
His will they conſtru'd by his might.
And in ſuch ſudden mazements weare,
That they their ſacred rites forbeare.
The common ſort to ſportings bent,
Their merry tunes turn'd to lament:
No ſpleen they had, their ſprights were ſpent
The Roman Fathers reuerend troope
In Phabus Pallace fitting, droope:
Not thither called at an houre,
By order of the Senates powre.
No Conſuls with their preſence grace
Their ſacred ſeates in ſupreme place.
Nor next to them the lawes to ſway
The Prator ſate in his array.
No Coches at the Senate gate,
That thither bring the Peeres of ſtate.
Caſar alone was all in all,
His priuate voyce the Court doth thrall.
The Fathers to his heſts giue way,
Rady his pleasure to obay.
Whether he Monarchy deſire,
Or would to ſacred rites aſpire:
Or liues of Senators would waſt,
Or them into exile would caſt.
But he (more modeſt and more milde)
Did blush his power ſhould be defil'd
More to command (with threatning feare)
Then well the Roman ſtate could beare.”
― Civil War
“Deare Cittizens, what brainßick charmes?
What outrage of dißordered armes?
Leades you to feaßt your enuious foes,
To ßee you goar'd with your owne blowes?
Proud Babylon your force doth ßcorn
Whoße ßpoyles your trophies might adorne
And Craßßus vnreunged ghoßt,
Roames wayling through the Parthian coaßt.
Doth now your hearts ßuch warre desire
As yeelds no triumphs for your hyre?
O what a world by Lands and Seas,
Mought you haue won with much more eaße.
Then halfe the bloud your weapons draines,
In ciuill ßtrife from out your vaines!”
― Pharsalia, Volumes 1-2
What outrage of dißordered armes?
Leades you to feaßt your enuious foes,
To ßee you goar'd with your owne blowes?
Proud Babylon your force doth ßcorn
Whoße ßpoyles your trophies might adorne
And Craßßus vnreunged ghoßt,
Roames wayling through the Parthian coaßt.
Doth now your hearts ßuch warre desire
As yeelds no triumphs for your hyre?
O what a world by Lands and Seas,
Mought you haue won with much more eaße.
Then halfe the bloud your weapons draines,
In ciuill ßtrife from out your vaines!”
― Pharsalia, Volumes 1-2
