The Consolation of Philosophy · 25 of 78

Book II, Song VI: Nero’s Infamy

We know what mischief dire he wrought— Rome fired, the Fathers slain— Whose hand with brother’s slaughter wet A mother’s blood did stain.

No pitying tear his cheek bedewed, As on the corse he gazed; That mother’s beauty, once so fair, A critic’s voice appraised.

Yet far and wide, from East to West, His sway the nations own; And scorching South and icy North Obey his will alone.

Did, then, high power a curb impose On Nero’s phrenzied will? Ah, woe when to the evil heart Is joined the sword to kill!