I have not spared my time, my gold, my blood.
And now all vanishes in plots and gibes—
I love this warm, brown land; it is my home.
And yet—to see the Forum once again!
Ah, Nydia! Nydia! Had you not died
I could have crossed the Alps, have crushed these men,
These unclean vultures, tearing at Rome’s side;
I could have brought back the Republic—then.
You died. I still fight on, but I am old.
Pompey is young, and though I beat him now,