TABLE TALK. Si te fortè meæ gravis uret sarcina chartæ, Abjicito. HOR. Lib. I. Epist. 13. A. You told me, I remember, glory, built B. I grant that, men continuing what they are, Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, Reward his mem'ry, dear to ev'ry muse, Who, with a courage of unshaken root, Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days, Is base in kind, and born to be a slave. But let eternal infamy pursue The wretch to nought but his ambition true, Who, for the sake of filling with one blast The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste. Think yourself station'd on a tow'ring rock, To see a people scatter'd like a flock, |