I ne'er have seen The mighty gods so near; this little field Alone dividing us; their hands are full Of my predestined honours: for 'tis I Who when this war is done shall have the power O'er all that peoples, all that kings enjoy To shower it where I will.

But has the pole Been moved, or in its nightly course some star Turned backwards, that such mighty deeds should pass Here on Thessalian earth?
To-day we reap Of all our wars the harvest or the doom.
Think of the cross that threats us, and the chain, Limbs hacked asunder, Caesar's head displayed Upon the rostra; and that narrow field Piled up with slaughter: for this hostile chief Is savage Sulla's pupil.

'Tis for you, If conquered, that I grieve: my lot apart Is cast long since.

This sword, should one of you Turn from the battle ere the foe be fled, Shall rob the life of Caesar.

O ye gods, Drawn down from heaven by the throes of Rome, May he be conqueror who shall not draw Against the vanquished an inhuman sword, Nor count it as a crime if men of Rome Preferred another's standard to his own.
Pompeius' sword drank deep Italian blood When cabined in yon space the brave man's arm No more found room to strike.