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Our youth, to scanty fare inured,
Made strong by labour oft endured,
Subdue the soil with spade and rake,
Or city walls with battle shake.
Through life we grasp our trusty spear:
It strikes the foe, it goads the steer:
Age cannot chill our valour: no,
The helmet sits on locks of snow;
And still we love to store our prey,
And eat the fruits our arms purvey.
You flaunt your robes in all men's eyes,
Your saffron and your purple dyes,
Recline on downy couch, or weave
The dreamy dance from morn to eve:
Sleeved tunics guard your tender skins,
And ribboned mitres prop your chins.
Phrygians!—nay rather Phrygian fair!
Hence, to your Dindymus repair!
Go where the flute's congenial throat
Shrieks through two doors its slender note,
Where pipe and cymbal call the crew;
These are the instruments for you:
Leave men, like us, in arras to deal,
Nor bruise your lily hands with steel.'

That ominous tongue, that boastful heart
Ascanius could not bear:
He drew the bowstring, poised the dart,
And stood with outstretched arms apart,
First calling Jove in prayer.
'Vouchsafe to bless, great Sire divine,
Thy suppliant's bold essay:
My grateful hand before thy shrine
Shall yearly offerings pay:
A goodly bullock from the stall,
Snow-white, his mother scarce so tall,