Whither, whither, reckless Romans, Are you rushing, sword in hand? Has not yet the blood of brothers, Fully stained the sea and land? Not that raging conflagration Should o?er fallen Carthage play; Not that the unconquered Briton Should descend the sacred way. "Rome," exclaims the joyful Parthian, "Ruin for herself prepares; Wolves with wolves are never savage, Lion lion never tears." Is this fury? is it madness? Speedy answer I demand; Foolish, blinded, guilty Romans, Silent, stupefied you stand. [590] Thus ?tis fated, blood of brothers Must atone for brothers? guilt, Since the blood of injured Remus Romulus in anger spilt.