These spoils are not mine.
Who has hung up on the coping-stone
This graceless gift to Mars?
The cones of the helmets are unbroken;
The shining shields are bloodless;
And unbroken are the fragile spears.
My whole face is red with shame;
And from my forehead sweat drops
On my breast, as if from a fountain.
With such things let a person adorn a private chapel,
Or an eating-room for men, or a hall,
Or a bridal chamber;
But let spoils stained with blood
Adorn the temple of Mars,
Who pursues on horse-back;
For with such are we delighted.
