But when, or where?—This world was made for Cæsar.
I’m weary of conjectures—this must end ’em.
Thus am I doubly armed—My death and life,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur’d in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point:
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;