Thou shalt from men and women reap such gifts
As thou would'st never gain from other mortals;
But in these fields of mine be slow to cast
820
Whetstones of murder's knife, to young hearts bale,
Frenzied with maddened passion, not of wine;
Nor, as transplanting hearts of fighting-cocks,[[538]]
Make Ares inmate with my citizens,
In evil discord, and intestine broils;
Let them have war without, not scantily,