And then I can tell you if Antony
Will call me brother or condemn me straight
To hunger-death in the earth-embowelled dungeon
Whose blackness prisoned up Jugurtha’s death.
You’re dumb? Oh be not dumb! How keen I feel
That such confession scarce beseems a king;
’Tis not his part to yoke his neck beneath
The common lot of man, ’tis not his part
To bind his inmost on another’s life,
He should be knit unto his God alone.