Nor worth the delving of a ditch to hide
Our bones in, less a dreadful sepulchre
To hold the harvest of a continent.
For which of us shall Italy be more fair?
Will yonder sun more brightly beam for me
Than for Vitellius? Or her labour’d fields
More richly bear, her rivers run, her hills
Brighten the more, for me than for Vitellius?
Upon the sands the silvery waters play;
The deep endellèd woods are rich with flowers;