Quo, quo, scelesti ruitis?

Why do the wicked rush downwards? How come hidden
Swords are readied in your right hands?
Whether on land or into Neptune’s depths, has so
Little of our Roman blood spilled?
Not so that envious Carthage’s high towers
Might be torched by the Roman’s hand
Nor that a chained Briton, from the land yet untouched
Yield and march down the Sacred Way,
But that Rome, according to the prayers of Persia,
Might perish by her own right hand.
Never was it wolves’ custom, nor lions’, to fight
Except with other sorts of beasts.
Does blind frenzy or black hostility seize us?
Does shame take hold? Give your answer!
They keep silent. Their washed-out brains, now infected
By blank paleness, are knocked senseless.
So it is: the bitter Fates incite in Romans
The wicked crime of fratricide,
Ever since, into the land of his innocent
Grandsons, sank Remus’s cursed blood.