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'Tis not in mortals to command success, But we'll do more, Sempronius—we'll deserve it.
The gods, in bounty, work up storms about us, That give mankind occasion to exert Their hidden strength, and throw out into practice Virtues, which shun the day, and lie conceal'd In the smooth seasons and the calms of life.
—How beautiful is death, when earn'd by virtue! Who would not be that youth? What pity is it, That we can die but once, to serve our country!
When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, The post of honour is a private station.
