Horace, Seventh Epode

Whither, whither, reckless Romans,
Are you rushing, sword in hand?
Has not yet the blood of brothers,
Fully stained the sea and land?

Not that raging conflagration
Should o-er fallen Carthage play;
Not that the unconquered Briton
Should descend the sacred way.

"Rome," exclaims the joyful Parthian,
"Ruin for herself prepares;
Wolves with wolves are never savage,
Lion lion never tears."

Is this fury? is it madness?
Speedy answer I demand;
Foolish, blinded, guilty Romans,
Silent, stupefied you stand. [590]

Thus -tis fated, blood of brothers
Must atone for brothers- guilt,
Since the blood of injured Remus
Romulus in anger spilt.