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Catiline by Ben Jonson Prepared from 1611 Quarto (STC 14759) by Hugh Craig, D of English, U of Newcastle. OTA A-1435-A Do'st thou not feele me, Rome? Not yet? Is night So heauy on thee, and my weight so light? Can Sylla's Ghost arise within thy walles, Lesse threatning, then an earth-quake, the quicke falles Of thee, and thine? shake not the frighted heads Of thy steepe towers? or shrinke to their first beds? Or, as their ruine the large Tyber fils, Make that swell up, and drowne thy seuen proud hils? What sleape is this doth seize thee, so like death, And is not it? Wake, feele her, in my breath. Behold, I come, sent from the Stygian Sound, As a dire Vapor, that had cleft the ground, To ingender with the night, and blast the day; Or like a Pestilence, that should display Infection through the world: which, thus, I do. Pluto be at thy councels; and into Thy darker bosome enter Sylla's spirit: All, that was mine, and bad, thy brest inherit. Alas, how weake is that, for Catiline! Did I b . . .
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