Warm gore from Sylla's sword, art yet athirst:
Jaws flesh[ed] with blood continue murderous.
Speak, when shall this thy long-usurped power end?
What end of mischief? Sylla teaching thee,
At last learn, wretch, to leave thy monarchy!
What, now Sicilian[609] pirates are suppress'd,
And jaded[610] king of Pontus poison'd slain,
Must Pompey as his last foe plume on me,
Because at his command I wound not up
My conquering eagles? say I merit naught,[611]340