The Consolation of Philosophy · Boethius
We know what mischief dire he wrought--
Rome fired, the Fathers slain--
Whose hand with brother's slaughter wet
A mother's blood did stain.
No pitying tear his cheek bedewed,
As on the corse he gazed;
That mother's beauty, once so fair,
A critic's voice appraised.
Yet far and wide, from East to West,
His sway the nations own;
And scorching South and icy North
Obey his will alone.
Did, then, high power a curb impose
On Nero's phrenzied will?
Ah, woe when to the evil heart
Is joined the sword to kill!
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End of part 27 of 80
Continue readingBook II: Prose VII
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