Not Caesar's deeds, nor all his honours won, In these west parts, nor when that war was done, The name of Pompey for an enemy, Cato's to boot, Rome, and her liberty, All yielding to his fortune, nor, the while, To have engraved these acts, with his own stile, And that so strong and deep, as't might be thought, He wrote, with the same spirit that he fought, Nor that his work lived in the hands of foes, Unargued then, and yet hath fame from those; Not all these, Edmonds, or what else put to, Can so speak Caesar, as thy labours do. For, where his person lived scarce one just age, And that, midst envy and parts; then fell by rage: His deeds too dying, but in books (whose good How few have read! how fewer understood!) Thy learned hand, and true Promethean art (As by a new creation) part by part, In every council, stratagem, design, Action, or engine, worth a note of thine, To all future time, not only doth restore His life, but makes, that he can die no more. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO SONGS OF A FOOL: 2 by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THE CRAFTSMAN by MARCUS B. CHRISTIAN ALNWICK CASTLE by FITZ-GREENE HALLECK THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE by MATTHEW PRIOR SONNET: 71 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE HER FIRST-BORN by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER |