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rosy-finger'd morn had ting'd the clouds, Around their monarch-mouse the nation crowds; Slow rose the sovereign, heav'd his anxious breast, And thus, the council fill'd with rage, address'd.

For lost Psycarpax much my soul endures, 'Tis mine the private grief, the public, yours. Three warlike sons adorn'd my nuptial bed, Three sons, alas! before their father dead! Our eldest perish'd by the ravening cat, As near my court the prince unheedful sat. Our next, an engine fraught with danger drew, The portal gap'd, the bait was hung in view, Dire arts assist the trap, the fates decoy, And men unpitying kill'd my gallant boy. The last, his country's hope, his parents' pride, Plung'd in the lake by Physignathus, died. Rouse all the war, my friends! avenge the deed, And bleed that monarch, and his nation bleed.

His words in every breast inspir'd alarms, And careful Mars supplied their host with arms.