(Quevedo, Mire los muros de la partia mia and Buscas en Roma a Roma, (!)O peregrino!)
I saw the musty shingles of my house, raw wood and fixed once, now a wash of moss eroded by the ruin of age furning all fair and green things into waste. I climbed the pasture. I saw the dim sun drink the ice just thawing from the boldered fallow, woods crowd the foothills, sieze last summer's field, and higher up, the sickly cattle bellow. I went into my house. I saw how dust and ravel had devoured its furnishing; even my cane was withered and more bent, even my sword was coffined up in rustâ€” there was no hilt left for the hand to try. Everything ached, and told me I must die.
You search in Rome for Rome? O Traveller! in Rome itself, there is no room for Rome, the Aventine is its own mound and tomb, only a corpse recieves the worshipper. And where the Capitol once crowned the forum, are medals ruined by the hands of time; they show how more was lost by chance and time the Hannibal or Ceasar could consume. The Tiber flows still, but its waste laments a city that has fallen in its graveâ€” each wave's a woman beating at her breast. O Rome! Form all you palms, dominion, bronze and beauty, what was firm has fled. What once was fugitive maintains its permenance.