Twelve years Twelve years of striving and at last My power is secure? Still Pompey lives And has an army and Metellus strives To wipe out his defeats. The net is cast: Cast, and draws ever tighter: and my men Grumble and mutter, near to mutiny. Perpenna stirs up treason: like a fen Of black and quaking marshes, my own camp Boils up all foulness, gapes to swallow me. The black death-chariot waits, the coursers stamp Yet I have made a law, have curbed...
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Poetry