Your land, your house, your lovely brideMust lose you; of your cherish'd treesNone to its fleeting master's sideWill cleave, but those sad cypresses.Your heir, a larger soul, will drainThe hundred-padlock'd Caecuban,And richer spilth the pavement stainThan e'er at pontiff's supper ran.

Few roods of ground the piles we raiseWill leave to plough; ponds wider spreadThan Lucrine lake will meet the gazeOn every side; the plane unwedWill top the elm; the violet-bed,The myrtle, each delicious sweet,On olive-grounds their scent will shed,Where once were fruit-trees yielding meat;Thick bays will screen the midday rangeOf fiercest suns. Not such the ruleOf Romulus, and Cato sage,And all the bearded, good old school.