For toil hath given it zest; ’tis calm and pure,
For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile,
My brother’s murderers, the patricians, hold
Inebriate vigils o’er their festal boards,
Or in dark midnight councils sentence me
To death, and Rome to chains. They little deem
Of the unlook’d-for and tremendous foe
So near at hand!—It is enough. I tread
In safety my paternal threshold.—Yes!
This is my own! O mother! O my wife!