The Consolation of Philosophy

We know what stirs he made

Who did the Senate slay and Rome with fire invade,

Who did his brother kill,

And with his mother's blood his moistened hand did fill;

Who looked on that cold face

Tearless, and nicely marked her members' several grace.¹

Yet his dread power controlled

Those people whom the sun doth in the east behold,

And those who do remain

In western lands or dwell under Boötes' wain

And those whose skins are tanned

With southern winds, which roast and burn the parched sand.

What? Could this glorious might

Restrain the furious rage of wicked Nero's spite?

But oh! mishap most bad,

Which doth the wicked sword to cruel poison add!"