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ODE VI.

Unhappy Romans! doom'd to bear
The Load of your Forefathers Guilt;
Till by your Piety and Care
Our Shrines and Temples are rebuilt:
You reign by bowing to the Gods Commands,
From this your State arose, on this your Glory stands.
Your impious Land already wears
The Marks of Vengeance from on high
Feels the yet smarting Parthian Scars,
And blushes with ignoble Dye;
When from Monæses' Arms your Squadrons fled,
And Rome's collected Spoils adorn'd the Victor's Head.
The Dacian and the sunny Moor
By Sea and Land their Forces bent,
At once to sink the Roman Pow'r
When Civil Rage the Empire rent;
When like a Deluge Vice triumphant reign'd,
And a degen'rate Race the Marriage Rites prophan'd.
Hence the Contagion first began,
And reach'd our Blood, and stain'd our Race:
The blooming Virgin, ripe for Man,
A thousand wanton Airs displays:
Train'd to the Dance her well-taught Limbs she moves,
And sates her wishing Soul with loose Incestuous Loves.

68

The Bride her lustful Rake invites,
Before her Husband's Face to toy;
She stays not for his drunken Fits,
Nor in a Corner tastes the Joy;
But in her Cuckolds Presence sells her Charms,
And grasps the Merchant's Gold, or meets the Captain's Arms.
'Twas not from such a motly Brood
Those better braver Romans came,
Who dy'd the Punick Seas with Blood,
And rais'd so high their Countrey's Fame;
By whom Antiochus and Pyrrhus dy'd,
And Hannibal was tam'd, and Carthage lost her Pride.
But hardy Youths inur'd to toil,
Or fell the Wood, or till the Land,
Or turn with heavy Spades the Soil,
By a dread Mother's just Command,
Nor ceas'd their Work, 'till down the Azure Way,
Sol rowl'd his beamy Car, and shut the chearful Day.
Time alters all things in its Pace,
Each Century new Vices owns;
Our Fathers bore an Impious Race,
And we shall have more wicked Sons:
Impiety still gathers in its Course;
The Present Times are bad, the Future will be worse.