A son of Rome and Egypt—son of gods—
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And hurri'd out his land by mother Isis:
Wherefore should'st a King to flee his throne?
For King I am, and King of Kings! kings all:
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My tutor taught me any man 's a king—
Yet not all men are gods, invincible.
I am divine, for ceremony's sake,
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And potent call'd in speech of potent men,
But now that playful act is come undone.
What king e'er stray'd from threaten'd subjects?
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Nay, what god-head ran from wicked men?
I've ne'er been king, but undevelop'd boy,
Train'd well by Caesar for a spell—too small!
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O, Caesar! deified in death— too late:
'Twas mortal evil dealt thine mortal strike.
If any living man deserv'd the name,
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'Twere you, but you were kill'd by little envy.
Nay, no god, I fear, but splendid man.
My mother is a queen, suppos'd a goddess,
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Yet she seems a nat'ral woman more of late—
Woeful, worri'd, wont to sigh and swoon,
And scheming o'er a heart already hers.
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She sometime call'd me Horus—mother rul'd;
For duties I had none but sleep and sit
And bid the cook to serve as dress'd my will.
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I would I were more pregnant, being king,
And puissant as these my parents were
When with all rev'rence and respect they reign'd
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And govern'd rightly o'er their wide-sprawl'd spheres.
Those giants rear'd a forceless, idle boy,
And what child e'er could claim a nobler birth?
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A son of god-hood should'st be mightier.
I can't e'en merely spin this carriage home—
Yea, west! and let me die in Egypt! ... east-ward on:
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A mother's order ever trump'd a son.