Not in civil strife Your blows shall fall -- the battle of to-day Sweeps from the earth the enemies of Rome.
Dash through these cowards and their vaunted kings: One stroke of sword and all the world is yours.
Make plain to all men that the crowds who decked Pompeius' hundred pageants scarce were fit For one poor triumph.

Shall Armenia care Who leads her masters, or barbarians shed One drop of blood to make Pompeius chief O'er our Italia?
Rome, 'tis Rome they hate And all her children; yet they hate the most Those whom they know.

My fate is in the hands Of you, mine own true soldiers, proved in all The wars we fought in Gallia.

When the sword Of each of you shall strike, I know the hand: The javelin's flight to me betrays the arm That launched it hurtling: and to-day once more I see the faces stern, the threatening eyes, Unfailing proofs of victory to come.
E'en now the battle rushes on my sight; Kings trodden down and scattered senators Fill all th' ensanguined plain, and peoples float Unnumbered on the crimson tide of death.
Enough of words -- I but delay the fates; And you who burn to dash into the fray, Forgive the pause.

I tremble with the hopes (14) Thus finding utterance.