When that brave honour of the Latine name, Which mear’d* her rule with Africa and Byze**, With Thames inhabitants of noble fame, And they which see the dawning day arize, Her nourslings did with mutinous uprore Harten against her selfe, her conquer’d spoile, Which she had wonne from all the world afore, Of all the world was spoyl’d within a while: So, when the compast course of the universe In sixe and thirtie thousand yeares is ronne, The bands of th’elements shall backe reverse To their first discord, and be quite undonne; The seedes of which all things at first were bred Shall in great Chaos wombe againe be hid. [* _Mear’d_, bounded.] [** _Byze_, Byzantium.] XXIII. O warie wisedome of the man* that would That Carthage towres from spoile should be forborne, To th’end that his victorious people should With cancring laisure not be overworne! He well foresaw how that the Romane courage, Impatient of pleasures faint desires, Through idlenes would turne to civill rage, And be her selfe the matter of her fires. For in a people given all to ease, Ambition is engendred easily; As, in a vicious bodie, grose disease Soone growes through humours superfluitie. That came to passe, when, swolne with plenties pride, Nor prince, nor peere, nor kin, they would abide. [* I.e. Scipio Nasica.] XXIV. If the blinde Furie which warres breedeth oft Wonts not t’enrage the hearts of equall beasts, Whether they fare on foote, or flie aloft, Or armed be with clawes, or scalie creasts, What fell Erynnis, with hot burning tongs, Did grype your hearts with noysome rage imbew’d, That, each to other working cruell wrongs, Your blades in your owne bowels you embrew’d? Was this, ye Romanes, your hard destinie? Or some old sinne, whose unappeased guilt Powr’d vengeance forth on you eternallie? Or brothers blood, the which at first was spilt Upon your walls, that God might not endure Upon the same to set foundation sure? XXV. O that I had the Thracian poets harpe, For to awake out of th’infernall shade Those antique Caesars, sleeping long in darke, The which this auncient citie whilome made! Or that I had Amphions instrument, To quicken with his vitall notes accord The stonie ioynts of these old walls now rent, By which th’Ausonian light might be restor’d! Or that at least I could with pencill fine Fashion the pourtraicts of these palacis, By paterne of great Virgils spirit divine! I would assay with that which in me is To builde, with levell of my loftie style, That which no hands can evermore compyle. XXVI.