M. ANNAEUS LUCANUS

Magnus, you are afraid; a series and use of labors now arouses you, and fortune that cannot bear a second place. Caesar can no longer endure a superior, nor Pompey an equal. Which of them took up arms with more justice, it is forbidden to know; each is supported by a great judge: the victorious cause pleased the gods, but the defeated one pleased Cato. And they did not come together as equals. The one, with his years declining into old age and more tranquil after long use of the toga, had now unlearned the leader's role in peace. A seeker of fame, he gave much to the common people, was entirely driven by the breath of the crowd, and rejoiced in the applause of his own theater. He did not renew his strength, and trusted much in his former fortune. He stood as the shadow of a great name; just as a lofty oak in a fertile field, bearing the ancient spoils of the people and the consecrated gifts of leaders, no longer clinging with strong roots, is fixed only by its own weight. Spreading its bare branches through the air, it creates shade with its trunk, not with its leaves; and although it totters, destined to fall at the first east wind, while many forests rise around it with firm strength, it alone is worshipped. But in Caesar there was not only a name and the fame of a leader, but a spirit that did not know how to stand still, and the only shame was not to conquer in war. Fierce and untamed, wherever hope or anger had called, he would bring his hand and never spare the sword in wrongdoing, urging on his successes, pressing the favor of the divinity, pushing aside whatever stood in his way as he sought the highest power, and rejoicing to have made his path through ruin.

1 Pompey, born in 106 B.C., was six years older than Caesar.