Sporting, on summer slopes, beneath old hills,
Seven infant eagles, from a passing cloud,
Dropt clustering in my lap. The Augurs thence
Gave me seven times the Roman Consulate.
Cethegus. Thou hast had it six.
Marius. One other yet remains.
Cethegus. Alas! the Fates but mock thee with a dream;
For know that, while thou sleptst, our treacherous bark
Loosed sail, and left the shores.
Marius. Gone!