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Ev’n thronging on their fellows swords they run,
And the foes' business by themselves is done.
But the fierce Moors disdain a croud should share
The praise of conqueft, or the task of war: 123's
Rivers of blood they wish, and hills of lain,
With mangled carcases to strow the plain.

Genius of Carthage! rear thy drooping head,
And view thy fields with Roman Naughter spread.
Behold, oh Hannibal, thou hostile shade!
A large amends by fortune's hand is made,
And the lost Punic blood is well repay'd.
Thus do the gods the cause of Pompey bless ?
Thus! is it thus, they give our arms success ?
Take, Afric, rather take the horrid good,
And make thy own advantage of our blood.

The dust, at length, in crimson floods was laid,
And Curio now the dreadful field survey’d.
He saw 'twas lost, and knew in vain to strive,
Yet bravely scorn’d to fly, or to survive; 1250
And though thus driven to death, he met it well,
And in a croud of dying Romans fell.

Now what avail thy popular arts and fame, Thy restless mind that shook thy country's frame; Thy moving tongue that knew so well to charm, 1255 And urge the madding multitude to arm ? What boots it, to have sold the senate's right, And driven the furious leaders on to fight? Thou the first victim of thy war art lain, Nor shalt thou see Pharsalia's fatal plain. 1266 Behold! ye potent troublers of the state, What wretched ends on curst ambition wait!




See ! where, a prey, unbury'd Curio lies,
To every fowl that wings the Libyan skies,
Oh! were the gods as gracious as severe, 1265
Were liberty, like vengeance, still their care;
Then, Rome! what days, what people might'st thou see,
If Providence would equally decree,
To punish tyrants, and preserve thee free.
Nor yet, oh generous Curio! shall my verse

Forget, thy praise, thy virtues, to rehearse :
Thy virtues, which with envious time shall strive,
And to succeeding ages long survive.
In all our pregnant mother's tribes, before,
A son of nobler hope she never bore :
A foul more bright, more great, she never knew,
While to thy country's interest thou wert true.
But thy bad fate o’er-rul’d thy native worth,
And in an age abandon’d brought thee forth;
When Vice in triumph through the city pass’d, 1280
And dreadful wealth and power laid all things waste.
The sweeping stream thy better purpose crossd,
And in the headlong torrent wert thou loft.
Much to the ruin of the state was done,
When Curio by the Gallic fpoils was won;
Curio, the hope of Rome, and her moft worthy son.
Tyrants of old, whom former times record,
Who rul’d, and ravag'd with the murdering sword;
Sylla whom such unbounded power made proud ;
Marius, and Cinna, red with Roman od;
Ev'n Cæsar's mighty race who lord it now,
Before whose throne the subject nations bow,
All bought that power which lavish Curio sold,
Curio, who barter'd liberty for gold,


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