Shall Rome be river’d with her children’s blood
That he or I should wear a purple rag?
What is’t to Rome who should be Cæsar? Hear.
We Cæsars rise, and rule, and rot—yet are
But as the names of nothing for a time;
The marks on foolish calendars of days
For farmers’ fruit-trees and memorial stones—
Notches on sticks, and gossip for winter nights;
Add not a corngrain to the goodman’s store,
A word to wisdom, nor a stave to song;