Fierce rage and madness, thy attendant brood,
Have taken foul possession of each breast,
And thirst with equal relish for their blood,
As if they did the Roman's grim behest.
Fire, fury, slaughter are their chiefest good,
To die—they reckon of all fates the best;
To snatch the triumph from the Roman bands,
Themselves will perish by their very hands.
Hunger.
Now turn your eyes, and see the flaming fire,