But now I passed it. There was a whisper of the last batch of senators strangled. Their bodies lay under the Gemonian. Tis said, they worship an invisible spirit, to whom they sacrifice with prayers alone and inward meditations. Nor ever will in Rome, I trust.
Gods multiply with bondsmen.
When all our emperors are deities, methinks I would not take the road towards heaven. Gaul and Britain bow submissively beneath our yoke. Nay, when that shall be the case, their wicker London shall be more magnificent than our imperial city, their galleys bolder and more numerous, their armies braver, and the riches of the East shall flow to Thule, not to Rome. Let us on toward the river, and along beneath the Aventine. A midst the bustle of the crowded quay we shall forget these melancholy thoughts.