Within the mighty Neptune's fane, Who snatch'd me, dripping, from the main. Suspendisse potenti Vestimenta maris deo. PART OF A CHORUS IN SENECA'S TRAGEDY OF THYESTES. 'Tis not wealth that makes a king, Nor the purple's colouring, Nor a brow that's bound with gold, Nor gates on mighty hinges rolled. The king is he, who void of fear, REGEM non faciunt opes, Non vestis Tyriæ color, Non frontis nota regiæ, Non auro nitidæ fores. Rex est, qui posuit metus, Et diri mala pectoris ; Who can tread ambition down, Nor be sway'd by smile or frown; Nor for all the treasure cares, That mine conceals, or harvest wears, Or that golden sands deliver, Bosom'd in a glassy river. What shall move his placid might? Not the headlong thunderlight, Quem non ambitio impotens, Vulgi præcipitis movet. Non quidquid fodit occidens; Aut unda Tagus aurea Claro devehit alveo; Non quidquid Libycis terit Fervens area messibus. Quem non concutiet cadens Obliqui via fulminis, Nor the storm that rushes out To snatch the shivering waves about, At whose tread the Scythians tremble, Non Eurus rapiens mare, Ventosi tumor Adriæ ; Quem non lancea militis, Non strictus domuit chalybs; Qui tuto positus loco, Infra se vidit omnia; Fato, nec queritur mori. Reges conveniant licet, Qui sparsos agitant Dahas, Grant that in the train be they, Whom the Red-Sea shores obey, Where the gems and chrystal caves Sparkle up through purple waves; Bring with these the Caspian stout, Who scorns to shut th' invader out, And the daring race that tread The rocking of the Danube's bed, With those again, where'er they be, Who, lapp'd in silken luxury, Qui rubri vada litoris, |