Say, wretched rivals! what provokes your rage? 210 Say, to what end your impious arms engage? Not all bright Phoebus views in early morn, Or when his ev'ning beams the west adorn, When the south glows with his meridian ray, And the cold north receives a fainter day; 215 For crimes like these, not all those realms suffice,[47] Were all those realms the guilty victor's prize! But fortune now (the lots of empire thrown) Decrees to proud Eteocles the crown: What joys, oh tyrant! swelled thy soul that day, 220 When all were slaves thou couldst around survey,[48] Pleased to behold unbounded power thy own, And singly fill a feared and envied throne! But the vile vulgar, ever discontent,[49] Their growing fears in secret murmurs vent; 225 Still prone to change, though still the slaves of state, And sure the monarch whom they have, to hate; New lords they madly make, then tamely bear, And softly curse the tyrants whom they fear.[50] And one of those who groan beneath the sway 230 Of kings imposed, and grudgingly obey, (Whom envy to the great, and vulgar spite With scandal armed, th' ignoble mind's delight,) Exclaimed--"O Thebes! for thee what fates remain, What woes attend this inauspicious reign? 235 Must we, alas! our doubtful necks prepare, } Each haughty master's yoke by turns to bear, } And still to change whom changed we still must fear? } These now control a wretched people's fate, These can divide, and these reverse the state: 240 Ev'n fortune rules no more!--O servile land, Where exiled[51] tyrants still by turns command. Thou sire of gods and men, imperial Jove! Is this th' eternal doom decreed above? On thy own offspring hast thou fixed this fate, 245 From the first birth of our unhappy state; When banished Cadmus, wand'ring o'er the main, For lost Europa searched the world in vain, And fated in Boeotian fields to found A rising empire on a foreign ground, 250 First raised our walls on that ill-omened plain, Where earth-born brothers were by brothers slain?[52] What lofty looks th' unrivalled[53] monarch bears! How all the tyrant in his face appears! What sullen fury clouds his scornful brow! 255 Gods! how his eyes with threat'ning ardour glow! Can this imperious lord forget to reign, Quit all his state, descend, and serve again? Yet, who, before, more popularly bowed? Who more propitious to the suppliant crowd? 260 Patient of right, familiar in the throne? What wonder then? he was not then alone. O wretched we, a vile, submissive train,