XXIV.

If the blinde Furie which warres breedeth oft Wonts not t’enrage the hearts of equall beasts, Whether they fare on foote, or flie aloft, Or armed be with clawes, or scalie creasts, What fell Erynnis, with hot burning tongs, Did grype your hearts with noysome rage imbew’d, That, each to other working cruell wrongs, Your blades in your owne bowels you embrew’d? Was this, ye Romanes, your hard destinie? Or some old sinne, whose unappeased guilt Powr’d vengeance forth on you eternallie? Or brothers blood, the which at first was spilt Upon your walls, that God might not endure Upon the same to set foundation sure?