Glad to the sky arose; no greater joy

A little blood could give them had they seen

That Caesar's self was wounded. Down he pressed

Deep in his soul the anguish, and, with mien,

No longer bent on fight, submissive cried,

"Spare me, ye citizens; remove the war

Far hence: no weapons now can haste my death;

Draw from my breast the darts, but add no more.

(Editor：theory)