In ten years wonn'st thou France: Rome may be won With far less toil, and yet the honour's more; Few battles fought with prosperous success May bring her down, and with her all the world. Nor shalt thou triumph when thou com'st to Rome, Nor Capitol be adorn'd with sacred bays; Envy denies all; with thy blood must thou Aby thy conquest past:[603] the son decrees 290 To expel the father: share the world thou canst not; Enjoy it all thou mayst." Thus Curio spake; And therewith CÊsar, prone enough to war, Was so incens'd as are Elean[604] steeds. With clamours, who, though lock'd and chain'd in stalls,[605] Souse[606] down the walls, and make a passage forth. Straight summon'd he his several companies Unto the standard: his grave look appeas'd The wrestling tumult, and right hand made silence; And thus he spake: "You that with me have borne 300 A thousand brunts, and tried me full ten years, See how they quit our bloodshed in the north, Our friends' death, and our wounds, our wintering Under the Alps! Rome rageth now in arms As if the Carthage Hannibal were near; Cornets of horse are muster'd for the field; Woods turn'd to ships; both land and sea against us. Had foreign wars ill-thriv'd, or wrathful France Pursu'd us hither, how were we bested, When, coming conqueror, Rome afflicts me thus? 310 Let come their leader[607] whom long peace hath quail'd, Raw soldiers lately press'd, and troops of gowns, Babbling[608] Marcellus, Cato whom fools reverence! Must Pompey's followers, with strangers' aid (Whom from his youth he brib'd), needs make him king? And shall he triumph long before his time, And, having once got head, still shall he reign? What should I talk of men's corn reap'd by force, And by him kept of purpose for a dearth? Who sees not war sit by the quivering judge, 320 And sentence given in rings of naked swords, And laws assail'd, and arm'd men in the senate? 'Twas his troop hemm'd in Milo being accus'd; And now, lest age might wane his state, he casts For civil war, wherein through use he's known To exceed his master, that arch-traitor Sylla. A[s] brood of barbarous tigers, having lapp'd The blood of many a herd, whilst with their dams They kennell'd in Hyrcania, evermore Will rage and prey; so, Pompey, thou, having lick'd 330 Warm gore from Sylla's sword, art yet athirst: Jaws flesh[ed] with blood continue murderous. Speak, when shall this thy long-usurped power end? What end of mischief? Sylla teaching thee, At last learn, wretch, to leave thy monarchy! What, now Sicilian[609] pirates are suppress'd, And jaded[610] king of Pontus poison'd slain, Must Pompey as his last foe plume on me, Because at his command I wound not up