It is decreed. Nor shall thy fate, O Rome,
Resist my vow. Though hills were set on hills
And seas met seas to guard thee, I would through;
Ay, plough up rocks, steep as the Alps, in dust
And lave the Tyrrhene waters into clouds,
But I would reach thy head, thy head, proud city.
The ills that I have done cannot be safe
But by attempting greater; and I feel
A spirit within me chides my sluggish hands
And says they have been innocent too long.
Was I a man bred great as Rome herself?
One formed for all her honours, all her glories,
Equal to all her titles? That could stand
Close up with Atlas, and sustain her name
As strong as he doth heaven? And was I,
Of all her brood, marked out for the repulse
By her no voice, when I stood candidate
To be commander in the Pontic War?
I will hereafter call her stepdame, ever.
If she can lose her nature, I can lose
My piety, and in her stony entrails
Dig me a seat where I will live again
The labour of her womb, and be a burden
Weightier than all the prodigies and monsters
That she hath teemed with since she first knew Mars.