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Si te fortè mea gravis uret farcina charte


-HOR. LIB. I. Epis. 13.

You told me, I remember, glory built

On felfish principles, is fhame and guilt;
The deeds that men admire as half divine,
Stark naught; because corrupt in their design.
Strange doctrine this! that without fcruple tears
The laurel that the very lightning spares,
Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust,
And eats into his bloody fword like rust.

B. I grant, that men continuing what they are
Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war.
And never meant the rule fhould be applied
To him that fights with justice on his fide.


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Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnaffian dews,
Reward his mem'ry, dear to ev'ry mufe,
Who, with a courage of unfhaken root,
In honour's field advancing his firm foot,
Plants it upon the line that juftice draws,
And will prevail or perish in her caufe.
'Tis to the virtues of fuch men, man owes
His portion in the good that heav'n bestows,
And when recording hiftory difplays

Feats of renown, though wrought in antient days,
Tells of a few flout hearts that fought and dy'd
Where duty plac'd them, at their country's fide;
The man that is not mov'd with what he reads,
'That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,
Unworthy of the bleffings of the brave,
Is bafe in kind and born to be a flave.
But let eternal infamy pursue

The wretch to nought but his ambition true,
Who, for the fake of filling with one blast
The poft-horns of all Europe, lays her wafte.
Think yourself station'd on a tow'ring rock,
To fee a people fcatter'd like a flock,
Some royal maftiff panting at their heels,
With all the favage thirft a tyger feels;
Then view him felf-proclaim'd in a gazette,
Chief monfter that has plagu'd the nations yet;


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