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And sweet and thrilling voices make the breeze Melodious with the envied name of Sforza! Young Julian by his side, seems to enjoy A second triumph, glorying in the friend Who taught his arm to wield the sword, and pluck The never-fading laurels which he wears So proudly on his brow, from Austria's plains. They come; I hear the long protracted shout. Approach the lattice, good my lord, and view The pageant as it passes. No, no, no; It is enough, that from my columned porch Up to the pediment, green wreaths are hung, And gold-wrought flags, and silken streamers wave From every balcony. This will suffice— I need not undergo a martyrdom— Expose my person to the mocking gaze Of the vile rabble, as, in times of old, The conquered captive graced the chariot-wheels