Thou know'st, great son, The end of war's uncertain, but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogged with curses, Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wiped it out, Destroyed his country; and his name remains To th' ensuing age abhorred,' Speak to me son. Thou hast affected the fine strains of honor, To imitate the graces of the gods; To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' th' air, And yet to change thy sulphur with a bolt That should rive an oak.