‘Ye brave in arms, ye Lydian blood, the flow’r Of Tuscan youth, and choice of all their pow’r, Whom just revenge against Mezentius arms, To seek your tyrant’s death by lawful arms; Know this: no native of our land may lead This pow’rful people; seek a foreign head.’ Aw’d with these words, in camps they still abide, And wait with longing looks their promis’d guide. Tarchon, the Tuscan chief, to me has sent Their crown, and ev’ry regal ornament: The people join their own with his desire; And all my conduct, as their king, require. But the chill blood that creeps within my veins, And age, and listless limbs unfit for pains, And a soul conscious of its own decay, Have forc’d me to refuse imperial sway. My Pallas were more fit to mount the throne, And should, but he’s a Sabine mother’s son, And half a native; but, in you, combine A manly vigour, and a foreign line. Where Fate and smiling Fortune shew the way, Pursue the ready path to sov’reign sway. The staff of my declining days, my son, Shall make your good or ill success his own; In fighting fields from you shall learn to dare, And serve the hard apprenticeship of war; Your matchless courage and your conduct view, And early shall begin t’ admire and copy you. Besides, two hundred horse he shall command; Tho’ few, a warlike and well-chosen band. These in my name are listed; and my son As many more has added in his own.”