My fear transcends my words, Yet more will happen than I can unfold. Turn all good, by augury vain, and Tages Th' arts' master false'. Thus in ambiguous terms, Involving all, did Aruns darkly sing. But Figulus, more seen in heavenly mysteries, Whose like Egyptian Memphis never had For skill in stars, and tuneful planeting, In this sort spake: 'The world's swift course is lawless And casual; all the stars at random rage: Or if fate rule them, Rome thy citizens Are near some plague: what mischief shall ensue? Shall towns be swallowed? Shall the thickened air, Become intemperate? Shall the earth be barren? Shall water be congealed and turned to ice? O gods what death prepare ye? With what plague Mean ye to rage? The death of many men Meets in one period. If cold noisome Saturn Were now exalted, and with blue beams shined, Then Ganymede would renew Deucalion's flood, And in the fleeting sea the earth be drenched. O Phoebus shouldst thou with thy rays now sing The fell Nemean beast, th' earth would be fired, And heaven tormented with thy chafing heat, But thy fire's hurt not; Mars, 'tis thou inflam'st The threat'ning Scorpion with the burning tail And fir'st his claws. Why art thou thus enraged? Kind Jupiter hath low declined himself; Venus is faint; swift Hermes retrograde; Mars only rules the heaven: why do the planets Alter their course and vainly dim their virtue? Sword-girt Orion's side glisters too bright. War's rage draws near; and the sword's strong hand Let all laws yield, sin bear the name of virtue, Many a year these furious broils let last, Why should we wish the gods should ever end them? War only gives peace, O Rome continue The course of mischief, and stretch out the date Of slaughter; only civil broils make peace.
These sad presages were enough to scare The quivering Romans, but worse things affright them. As Maenus full of wine on Pindus raves, So runs a matron through th' amazed streets, Disclosing Phoebus' fury in this sort; 'Paean, whither am I haled? Where shall I fall? Thus borne aloft I see Pangeus' hill, With hoary top, and under Haemus' mount Philippi plains; Phoebus what rage is this? Why grapples Rome, and makes war, having no foes? Whither turn I now? Thou lead'st me toward th' east, Where Nile augmenteth the Pelusian sea: This headless trunk that lies on Nilus' sand I know: now throughout the air I fly To doubtful Syrtes and dry Afric, where A fury leads the Emathian bands; from thence To the pine-bearing hills, hence the mounts Pyrene, and so back to Rome again. So impious war defiles the Senate house, I go; O Phoebus, show me Neptune's shore, And other regions, I have seen Philippi: This said, being tired with fury she sunk down.
Finis.