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 Turn'd the luxurious pomp he could not cure; Or toiling in his farm, a simple swain; Or, bold and skilful, thundering in the field.

rougher front, a mighty people come! A race of heroes! in those virtuous times Which knew no stain, save that with partial flame Their dearest country they too fondly lov'd. Her better founder first, the light of , , who soften'd her rapacious sons: the King, who laid the solid base On which o'er earth the vast republic spread. Then the great consuls venerable rise. The who the Private quell'd, As on the dread tribunal sternly sad. He, whom his thankless country could not lose, , only vengeful to her foes. , scorner of all-conquering gold; And, awful from the plough. Thy, Carthage, bursting loose From all that pleading Nature could oppose, From a whole city's tears, by rigid faith Imperious call'd, and honour's dire command. , the gentle chief, humanely brave, Who soon the race of spotless glory ran, And, warm in youth, to the Poetic shade With Friendship and Philosophy retir'd. Author:Marcus Tullius Cicero, whose powerful eloquence a while Restrain'd the rapid fate of rushing. Unconquer'd, virtuous in extreme. And thou, unhappy, kind of heart, Whose steady arm, by awful virtue urg'd, Lifted the Roman steel against thy Friend. Thousands,