And forced the head of Mithridates down;
When in your hand the ball and scepter curled,
And three great triumphs echoed your renown,
Who'd tell you, might Pompey, that the sailors
Would throw your rotting body in the Nile,
Your once-bright robes now packaged for wholesalers
Your head retained in hope of Caesar's smile?
And happy Caesar, who at Pharsalus
Used steel to take the laurel you wore prettily,
Thinking your enemies were silenced thus,
Who'd tell you, busy ruling Italy,
Your own bad end? Except for one who knew
Your destiny is fixed in spite of you.
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