Stripp'd from the soldier; I have seenFree sons of Rome with arms fast tied;The fields we spoil'd with corn are green,And Carthage opes her portals wide.The warrior, sure, redeem'd by gold,Will fight the bolder! Aye, you heapOn baseness loss. The hues of oldRevisit not the wool we steep;And genuine worth, expell'd by fear,Returns not to the worthless slave.Break but her meshes, will the deerAssail you? then will he be braveWho once to faithless foes has knelt;Yes, Carthage yet his spear will fly,Who with bound arms the cord has felt,The coward, and has fear'd to die.He knows not, he, how life is won;Thinks war, like peace, a thing of trade!Great art thou, Carthage! mate the sun,While Italy in dust is laid!”