XXXI

That we see nothing but an empty waste
Where one was seen the pride of all the earth,
Is no fault of yours, you men of other birth,
Who Nile, Euphrates, Tigris, Ganges taste.

Africa, Spain, neither are you disgraced,
Nor that race that holds the English firth,
Nor, by the French Rhine, soldiers of worth,
Nor Germany with other warriors graced.

O, Civil Fury, you alone are the cause,
In Macedonian fields sowing new wars,
Arming Pompey against Caesar there,

So that achieving the rich crown of all,
Roman grandeur, prospering everywhere,
Might tumble down in more disastrous fall.