Best gift of all The knowledge how to die; next, death compelled.
If cruel Fortune doth reserve for me An alien conqueror, may Juba be As Ptolemaeus.

So he take my head My body grace his triumph, if he will." More than had Rome resounded with his praise Words such as these gave honour to the shade Of that most noble dead.
Meanwhile the crowd Weary of warfare, since Pompeius' fall, Broke into discord, as their ancient chief Cilician called them to desert the camp.
But Cato hailed them from the furthest beach: "Untamed Cilician, is thy course now set For Ocean theft again; Pompeius gone, Once more a pirate ?" Thus he spake, and gazed At all the stirring throng; but one whose mind Was fixed on flight, thus answered, "Pardon, chief, 'Twas love of Magnus, not of civil war, That led us to the fight: his side was ours: With him whom all the world preferred to peace, Our cause is perished.

Let us seek our homes Long since unseen, our children and our wives.
If nor the rout nor dread Pharsalia's field Nor yet Pompeius' death shall close the war, Whence comes the end?
The vigour of a life For us is vanished: in our failing years Give us at least some pious hand to speed The parting soul, and light the funeral pyre.
Scarce even to its captains civil strife Concedes due burial.

Nor in our defeat Does Fortune threaten us with the savage yoke Of distant nations.

In the garb of Rome And with her rights, I leave thee.