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I thank ye, soldiers! Rome, indeed, hath triumph'd, Bless'd in the high protection of her gods, The sovereign warrior-nation of the world; And, favour'd by great Jove and mighty Mars, So may she triumph still, nor meanly stoop To worship strange and meaner deities, Adverse to warlike glory. [Exit, with his train.

The Pontiff seems disturb'd, his brow is lowering.

Reproof and caution, mingled with his thanks, Tho' utter'd graciously.

He is offended, Because of late so many valiant soldiers Have proselytes become to this new worship; A worship too, as he insinuates, Unsuited to the brave.

Ay, ay! the sacred chickens are in danger.