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M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, The fourteen orations against Marcus Antonius (Philippics) (ed. C. D. Yonge), THE FIFTH ORATION OF M. T. CICERO AGAINST MARCUS ANTONIUS. OTHERWISE CALLED THE FIFTH PHILIPPIC., chapter 7 (search)
M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, The fourteen orations against Marcus Antonius (Philippics) (ed. C. D. Yonge), THE SIXTH ORATION OF M. T. CICERO AGAINST MARCUS ANTONIUS. CALLED ALSO THE SIXTH PHILIPPIC. ADDRESSED TO THE PEOPLE., chapter 4 (search)
M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, The fourteen orations against Marcus Antonius (Philippics) (ed. C. D. Yonge), THE THIRTEENTH ORATION OF M. T. CICERO AGAINST MARCUS ANTONIUS. CALLED ALSO THE THIRTEENTH PHILIPPIC., chapter 9 (search)
Varus, are your trees in planting? put in none before the vine, In the rich domain of Tibur, by the walls of Catilus; There's a power above that hampers all that sober brains design, And the troubles man is heir to thus are quell'd, and only thus. Who can talk of want or warfare when the wine is in his head, Not of thee, good father Bacchus, and of Venus fair and bright? But should any dream of licence, there's a lesson may be read, How 'twas wine that drove the Centaurs with the Lapithae to fight. And the Thracians too may warn us; truth and falsehood, good and ill, How they mix them, when the wine-god's hand is heavy on them laid! Never, never, gracious Bacchus, may I move thee 'gainst thy will, Or uncover what is hidden in the verdure of thy shade! Silence thou thy savage cymbals, and the Berecyntine horn; In their train Self-love still follows, dully, desperately blind, And Vain-glory, towering upwards in its emptyheaded scorn, And the Faith that keeps no secrets, with a window i
Septimius, who with me would brave Far Gades, and Cantabrian land Untamed by Rome, and Moorish wave That whirls the sand; Fair Tibur, town of Argive kings, There would I end my days serene, At rest from seas and travellings, And service seen. Should angry Fate those wishes foil, Then let me seek Galesus, sweet To skin-clad sheep, and that rich soil, The Spartan's seat. O, what can match the green recess, Whose honey not to Hybla yields, Whose olives vie with those that bless Venafrum's fields? Long springs, mild winters glad that spot By Jove's good grace, and Aulon, dear To fruitful Bacchus, envies not Falernian cheer. That spot, those happy heights desire Our sojourn; there, when life shall end, Your tear shall dew my yet warm pyre, Your bard and friend.