Not such their birth, who stain'd for usThe sea with Punic carnage red,Smote Pyrrhus, smote Antiochus,And Hannibal, the Roman's dread.Theirs was a hardy soldier-brood,Inured all day the land to tillWith Sabine spade, then shoulder woodHewn at a stern old mother's will,When sunset lengthen'd from each heightThe shadows, and unyoked the steer,Restoring in its westward flightThe hour to toilworn travail dear.What has not cankering Time made worse?Viler than grandsires, sires begetOurselves, yet baser, soon to curseThe world with offspring baser yet.

Why weep for him whom sweet Favonian airsWill waft next spring, Asteria, back to you,Rich with Bithynia's wares,A lover fond and true,