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Who to fair Venus lib'ral off'ring gives,
Enrich'd with love and sweet affection lives.
Then, be your praises still our sacred theme,
O Venus, Bacchus, Mars, and Jove supreme!

PONTIFF.

I thank ye, soldiers! Rome, indeed, hath triumph'd,

Bless'd in the high protection of her gods,
The sovereign warrior-nation of the world;
And, favour'd by great Jove and mighty Mars,
So may she triumph still, nor meanly stoop
To worship strange and meaner deities,
Adverse to warlike glory.
[Exit, with his train.

FIRST OFFICER.

The Pontiff seems disturb'd, his brow is lowering.

SECOND OFFICER.

Reproof and caution, mingled with his thanks,

Tho' utter'd graciously.

FIRST OFFICER.

He is offended,

Because of late so many valiant soldiers
Have proselytes become to this new worship;
A worship too, as he insinuates,
Unsuited to the brave.

THIRD OFFICER.

Ay, ay! the sacred chickens are in danger.