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Sub rastro crepet argenti mihi seria dextro
“ O Hercules, when next I rake the soil,
Urge on his fate, nor Heaven condemn the deed; “ The sickly child already seems to pine, “ And bile and ulcer hasten his decline. “ Three times hath Hymen's torch for Nerius burn'd, “ Three times hath he to widowhood return'd. And now, fanatic wretch, to purge your soul, Plunge where the sacred waves of Tiber roll; To them each morn the night's foul stains convey, And in their waters wash
your To one plain question honestly reply: What are your thoughts of him who rules the sky? As all our judgments rest on what we know, And good is still comparative below; Is there a man whom even as Jove you prize, Like him believe beneficent and wise? What, are you doubtful? such may Staius be.? Who is the juster judge, or Jove or he ? But let me ask, to Staius did you say One half of what you utter when you pray, Would he not from you with abhorrence turn, And you and all your bribes indignant spurn? But do you hope, that Jove will lend an ear To prayers, which Staius would refuse to hear ? Do you believe that Heaven at you connived, Because its lightnings flew, and you survived : Because o'er you the thunder harmless broke, While the red vengeance struck the blasted oak ?
An quia non fibris ovium, Ergennaque jubente,
conclude that you may mock your God, Because his mercy still hath spared the rod; Because no silent grove's unhallow'd gloom By mortals shunn'd hath yet conceal’d your tomb, Where in last expiation of the dead, The augur worshipp'd, and the victim bled ? What are the bribes with which Jove's ear you win, Excusing guilt, and palliating sin ? Will prayer do this ? will vows your pardon gain? While entrails smoke, and fatted lambs are slain?
Lo, from his cradle all his parent's joy, The superstitious grandam lifts the boy; Well skill'd the lines of destiny to trace, She bathes his eyes, with spittle daubs his face, Lays the mid-finger on his little brow, Extends her hands, and meditates the vow. In her quick thought Licinius quits his fields, And wealthy Crassus his possessions yields. “ Let every bliss, sweet child of hope, be thine, “ Bright stars beam on thee, and mild planets shine. “ Let rival monarchs bow to thee the head, “ And queens design thee for their daughter's bed. " To thee their charms may blooming nymphs expose, “ And still thy footsteps press the springing rose.” May never nurse with drawling canting whine, Invoke such blessings on a child of mine! But if she should, good Jove, the infant spare, Though rob’d in white she shall prefer her prayer You ask strong nerves, age that is fresh and hale: 'Tis well ; go on. But how shall you prevail?
Annuere his superos vetuêre, Jovemque morantur.