Theogenes.
O blood, that from my very bosom flows,
Since thou belongest to my children dear;
O hand, which wounds thyself with deadly blows,
Replete with honour and with might austere;
Thou Fortune, who art privy to our woes;
Ye Heavens, devoid of pity or of cheer,
Afford me now, in this my bitter lot,
Some glorious, speedy death upon the spot!
O valiant Numantines, take ye account